


Wolves dancing under the moon

by thewallflower07



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Coming Out, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Don't copy to another side, Fireplaces, Firewhiskey (Harry Potter), First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hogwarts Forbidden Forest, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Potions Class (Harry Potter), Potterlock, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21572662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewallflower07/pseuds/thewallflower07
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is back at Hogwarts, but this time he is working on the other side of the desk. As the potion teacher with a dangerous secret, he prefers to live his life alone. When the new school term also introduces the handsome and kind John Watson, Sherlock’s life is suddenly different and infinitely more interesting. Between Quidditch training and grading homework, the two young teachers slowly grow closer.Life at Hogwarts however also includes many dangers, and Sherlock and John have to learn how to trust each other to survive until the Christmas party.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 31
Kudos: 149





	1. Welcome to Hogwarts

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first ever finished multi-chapter fanfic: This year's NaNoWriMo! This story will have a total of seven chapters, they will all be uploaded until Christmas. 
> 
> I hope you will reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The sun has already set and the moon has appeared over the majestic school building. It is surprisingly cold for the beginning of September. The harsh wind blows leaves through the fighting branches of the Whomping Willow. The Forbidden Forest lies in the dark and is completely still, no gigantic spiders are to be seen. Thousands of stars, far away from pollution, are shining in the sky.

  
The relative peace is interrupted for a moment when a young man suddenly appears with a plop in front of the school gates. He walks purposely through the opening gates and hurries up the long way to the school. His large black coat is blowing behind him, resembling a large, dramatic bat.

  
The strange figure is Sherlock Holmes, and he is late for school. Usually, the teacher are required to arrive at least one week before the new term starts to attend teacher conferences and prepare their class room. Professor McGonagall also demands her teachers to hand all their class schedules to her, so that is another task to be done.

  
Sherlock Holmes has perfectly finished doing most of that (however tedious some teacher meetings may be — really, nobody can expect him to concentrate on all of them), but today he had to return to his rented flat at Baker Street in London because apparently, his experiment hasn’t died off completely and had given his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, nearly a heart attack. Cleaning was required, and for some reason, Mrs. Hudson insisted on him doing it.

  
Only one hour beforehand, the first year students had set off on their boat ride over the Great Lake. It has been a long tradition for the school and is beloved by the first years. They would have seen Hogwarts for the first time, and Sherlock still remembers exactly how enchanting that felt for him; he experiences this feeling every time he walks up to the castle. Only now, he sits on the other side of the Great Hall, at the long teacher’s table under the ever-changing sky of the Great Hall.  
  


The school has gone through some reforms under Professor Minerva McGonagall as the new headmistress, after Albus Dumbledore was murdered at the Astronomy Tower 16 years ago. She had offered Sherlock the job as teacher last year, only seven years after he had initially left Hogwarts as a top grade student.  
One quickly ended career as an auror and an unfortunate drug addiction later, Sherlock found himself as an unemployed man laying in a hospital bed at St. Mungo, with an annoying older brother and fretting parents. The job offer from McGonagall was his saving grace, although Mycroft had at first laughed at him. Surely, such a rude, uncontrolled and impatient man could never be a teacher, no matter how clever — yet Sherlock had grown to love his job. He enjoyed teaching. At the moment, he is the primary potion teacher, since Professor Slughorn is either on a very long holiday or writing a book, depending on the moment you decide to ask him. The work keeps his mind from other, more dangerous subjects, which is welcome to him. As a nice advantage, Mycroft will keep his curious nose out of Sherlock’s business as long as the younger Holmes is at Hogwarts.  
  
Filch is opening the grand entrance door for him with a disgruntled face, but Mrs. Norris meows happily at him. During his seven years as a student, Sherlock had smuggled her pieces of fish and other cat treats, to keep her from snitching on him whenever he sneaked out of the Ravenclaw common room. Mr. Filch did not appreciate it then, and he is not a big fan of the young potion teacher now. Sherlock winks at Mrs. Norris, then continues his journey through the deserted school halls. He can hear a lot of wild clapping, so that means he must have missed the Sorting Hat Ceremony. Sherlock fervently hopes McGonagall won’t be too upset — he does have a good explanation — and enters the Great Hall. Lots of students follow his way as he walks between the wall and the Gryffindor table. Some pointing is also involved, which Sherlock ignores. They will get to know him soon anyway. McGonagall does serves him a disgruntled look, but she doesn’t seem to harbour murderous feelings towards him. Perfect.  
He slips on his old seat next to Professor Flitwick, when he suddenly notices his new neighbour. How he did not notice him immediately is a mystery. The stranger must only be two or three years older than him, with blond, short hair and curious blue eyes. Sherlock nearly falls under the table from the intensity of this gaze alone.

  
The blond stranger smiles — SMILES — at Sherlock, and then he focuses his attention back on McGonagall who has continued her speech.

  
“This year, I am happy to announce that Professor Holmes has agreed to continue his position as the potion teacher.“ She doesn’t sound too thrilled (still angry about him arriving late then), but Sherlock quickly stands up and bows his head. He is secretly pleased to hear that the students are clapping and some are even cheering. Maybe he isn’t so bad at his job after all?

  
And much more important, who is the handsome man next to him?

  
“Another exciting addition to our teaching staff is Professor Watson. He will be our new teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts. I hope you will give Professor Watson a warm welcome.“

  
The famous Harry Potter, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts before, had decided to focus more on his three young children, since his wife’s Quidditch career is at its peek, and she is not often home.

  
The students clap happily when they hear the news, and Sherlock does not miss a few appreciating looks from the older students into Watson’s direction. He is not the only one who has noticed how good the new teacher looks.

  
“Furthermore, the ministerium and I have decided that from this year on, we will introduce new clubs and sport teams for you students to participate in. These extracurricular activities will help you meet new acquaintances from the other houses and hopefully also further your interests. The professors will introduce their clubs tomorrow and you can sign up to their lists in the common rooms.“

  
Wait. What? Is this another announcement Sherlock missed? He certainly did not set up any clubs or sports teams.

  
He is ripped out of his growing confusion by a gentle touch to his elbow that sends immediate shocks through his back.

  
It is the mysterious Professor Watson, who then actually winks at him. Sherlock cannot remember when someone last did that towards him, so he carefully winks back. Watson chuckles, a lovely and low sound that makes Sherlock ache to hear his voice. It lights up Watson’s whole face.  
  
“Enjoy the feast!“ McGonagall finally announces, and with a wink the five long tables groan under the weight of roast beef, potatoes, bread, chicken wings, fish, salad, the ever-present chips, noodles… Everything you could wish for. The table for the teachers is a bit more individual, depending on what the teachers like to eat the most. Sherlock finds himself confronted with mountains of cooked rice, fried chicken, dumplings and sweet duck. He puts little pieces of everything on his plate, then starts dragging it from one side to the other over his plate. He does not feel very hungry.

  
“You should eat more, you look absolutely ravished.“ A new voice addresses him from the side. Sherlock turns his head so quickly that he hits his knee under the table. Professor Watson wears a cuddly, brown jumper under his dark robes, and there are a few grey streaks in his blond hair, which makes him look more sophisticated.

  
“… Sorry?“ Sherlock asks, with an unusual delay for him.

  
“You can have some of mine, if you want it. I don’t think I ever tasted a better roast beef, my mother’s excluded.“ Professor Watson says and starts dumping food on Sherlock’s plate. Sherlock watches this unexpected manoeuvre confused. This professor somehow already managed to catch him off guard twice.

  
“I expect you are used to caring for people, being a trained healer.“ The words fall out of his mouth, and Sherlock wishes he could shove them right back.

  
Watson blinks at him: “How did you know I used to be a healer? Did McGonagall tell you?“

  
“Maybe, but I did not really listen. I know because you cut your meat with your wand with a precision that is unusual for, let’s say, an accountant. There is of course your caring nature, with becoming a teacher and all. You used to be an auror, but were cursed and you now struggle with a limp and an aching shoulder. I can fix your limp, your shoulder just needs a bit more time.“

  
Sherlock can also read the man’s depression from the cane that is laying under their table, but maybe this better reminds unsaid.

  
“How do you know I used to be an auror?“

  
“You are the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, they prefer professors with experiences in fighting against the dark arts. You probably only just got the job, since I did not see you at any of the teacher conferences. The position was cursed for years, with no one staying longer than one year, until Mr. Potter came in. Since he is gone now, I imagine other possible applicants remain cautious. Maybe you know Potter from your shared experiences fighting against the Dark Arts, and he recommended you to the headmistress. The way you hold yourself is very calm, respectful and disciplined, it practically screams military training. Then of course your injury. Not many jobs involve being cursed that badly.“

  
Sherlock waits with bated breath. Not his best deductions, certainly, but maybe Watson will not be angry.

  
“Brilliant.“ The former auror slash healer exclaims so loudly, that Flitwick nearly chokes on his pumpkin juice.

  
Now it is Sherlock’s turn to blink surprised. Thank Merlin Mycroft is not here to witness his embarrassing evening.

  
“That is not what people usually say.“ Sherlock confesses.

  
“What do people usually say?“

  
“Shut up, or I will force you to. Not that they would have a fighting chance against me. After all, teachers at Hogwarts are exceptional at their craft.“ Sherlock boasts.

  
“We really are amazing.“ Watson answers, and the two giggle together. Sherlock picks up a piece of duck and eats it to satisfy the doctor.

  
“I’m John Watson.“ The man finally introduces himself, and Sherlock shakes the offered hand. John’s hands are rough from the hard work, and they fit perfectly into Sherlock’s.

  
“Sherlock Holmes.“

  
“That sounds like an unique name. Your father’s?“

  
“My grandmother’s, actually. She is French.“

  
John laughs and Sherlock hides his smile behind his glass. John did not appear to be someone who often smiles, and Sherlock has made him laugh several times now!

“So, how will you cure my limp?“ John asks.

  
“Oh, that will come quite naturally. When we are searching for the first student who is lost at night in the Forbidden Forest, you will have entirely forgotten about it. You are not haunted by danger, you miss it.“

  
“That is… quite a brave statement, though not the strangest thing I have heard today. Do students still run into the Forbidden Forest alone? Surely, in some generation, the students will have learned better.“

  
“You would think that, but it still happens, often in the first weeks, when the older students prank the first years. At least the Forbidden Forest is no longer used for detention. McGonagall tries to keep the number of students with missing limbs and concussions to a minimum.“ Fortunately, McGonagall has ended that insane detention tradition long ago, and Sherlock has the peace and quiet to look for new plants and visit the thestrals. He does not tell John that, though.

  
“Good, that school practice was an awful idea. Anyway, what all the winking was about… I want to ask you if you are up to starting regular Quidditch practices for the students who do not make it into the official house teams. Students at Hogwarts really need more exercise, and I think it is unfair that only seven players in every house get to play it.“

  
Sherlock nods approvingly: “That is a good idea, I never thought of that.“

  
“Did you play Quidditch when you were a student?“

  
“Yes, I was the seeker, from second to seventh year.“

  
“You were a Ravenclaw, right?“

  
Sherlock is flattered that John guessed correctly.

  
“Oh, yes. I loved the extra library we had in there, and my own room of course.“

  
“Wait, you had a room for yourself?“ John’s mouth drops open in surprise.

  
“It’s more like a closet, with a cupboard, a table, a chair and a bed, but it barely fits in.“

  
“That is so unfair! In the Gryffindor common rooms, we had to share one bathroom and one bedroom, and we were five boys! One of them snored very loudly, and we could not make him stop.“

  
Sherlock shudders at the thought of sleeping seven years with five boys together who probably hated him. Awful. The Ravenclaw students are privileged with their own rooms. They are allowed a small space for working and experimenting late at night, so as not to disturb their classmates.

  
“Let me guess: You were the captain and chaser, right?“

  
“Correct again.“

  
The two concentrate on eating for a while, allowing the general noise and festivity around them to dwell on. John appears to think about his next question very carefully.

  
“Did you ever have a visitor in your closet?“ John suddenly asks hastily out of the blue, not looking up from his plate.

  
“No, not really. Most students did not appreciate the deductions I made about them, and for the rest of the time, I preferred the library or an empty classroom.“

  
“Shame, really. Must have been a perfect hiding place, for you know…“ John waves his arms awkwardly around.

  
Sherlock stares at him.

  
“You know what I mean. Did you ever had a girlfriend?“ John asks and takes a big gulp of his steaming cup of tea.

  
“No, not really my area.“ Sherlock answers.

  
“Boyfriend, then? Which is totally fine, by the way.“

  
“I know it is fine.“

  
Sherlock did have a little… crush? On a boy a year above him, called Victor Trevor from Hufflepuff. Sherlock’s feelings didn’t last for long.

  
John stares at the plate. Sherlock does the same.

  
“So…“ John concentrates his gaze on the black sky in the hall. „What about now?“

  
“What?“

  
“Do you have someone now? A boyfriend?“  
Sherlock shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. What is John Watson hinting at?

  
“That’s good.“ John clears his throat. Sherlock’s face feels like it is burning and coughs loudly. Flitwick, who so far had tried to listen secretly (not secretly enough though), suddenly turns to Binns and engages him loudly in a discussion about the current prime minister (Mycroft is really the country’s leader, but officially, he is only the first assistant). Sherlock wonders if the other teachers are as interested in their conversation as Sherlock is.

  
Sherlock gathers the last shred of his bravery and asks: “What about you?“

  
John blushes madly: “Neither of them, at the moment.“

  
“You just broke up with someone.“ Sherlock guesses.

  
“Yeah.“ John scratches his head. “We discovered too many… differences between us, so I ended it a fortnight ago.“

  
“Right. Sorry to hear that.“ Sherlock says, he hopes he sounds empathetic and not to obviously interested.

  
“Don’t be, we were only fighting at the end anyway.“ John sighs, then shoves his now empty plate aside. Sherlock does the same, and the main courses are switched with desert. The rest of the feast is spent in silence until McGonagall ends the evening and sends all the students away. The newly made perfects run around to collect the frightened first graders, and the students trickle out to their common rooms. Sherlock pretends to finish drinking his tea until everyone is gone, so John won’t feel embarrassed because of his limp (not that there is anything to be ashamed of, but John Watson must be a proud man). John gathers the hateful cane in his hand. Sherlock and John slowly leave the Great Hall together, and Sherlock is just about to leave to his rooms, when John stops him with a hand on his arms.

  
“Can we meet tomorrow after the sixth lesson to start about the Quidditch training?“

  
“Of course.“ Sherlock stutters. To be honest, he entirely forgot about that thing. The rest of their conversation had been much more exciting.

  
“Great. Thank you for welcoming me to Hogwarts.“ John says, smiles at him one last time, then disappears.

  
Sherlock is left alone at the grand entrance, totally speechless. A cat with a particular fur runs across from him, and Sherlock could swear he hears her giggle.

* * *

Sherlock has moved most of his stuff already into his dozens of closets and cupboards, and he has spread his plans for the different classes on the desk. His bed is shoved into a corner, and the moon is shining through the two big windows. Sherlock can see directly over the Forbidden Forest, which is practical if he plans a spontaneous visit. He quickly changes into his favourite blue dressing gown and pyjama and throws one last look at his schedule for tomorrow. Everything should be fine, although he is starting the school year with the first graders on Monday. Well, that cannot be helped.

  
With an exhaustive sigh he drops on his comfy bed. With a flick of his wand, he opens the wall behind his bed frame.

  
The potion is still there. Sherlock checks it, but everything appears to be untouched. The next full moon will only be in a month, but it is better to stay prepared. The potions masters have come a long way in discovering the best potion, and the new version is certainly improved. Sherlock does not turn into a werewolf — harmless or not — if he takes the potion, so he can continue working, but it still causes terrible cramps, headaches, sometimes nausea and leaves him completely battered. Sherlock still needs to add the last ingredients, but that has to wait till one day before the full moon, otherwise it will not work.  
Officially, discrimination against werewolves is illegal, but unofficially… If someone finds out and the news is spread, most students and their parents will not want a werewolf as their potion teacher. McGonagall will be forced to fire him, and Sherlock would be left at stage one again.

  
He does not remember who bit him. It happened during one of his drug binges, and he turned at the next full moon. Thankfully Mycroft appeared just in time to rescue him from biting people himself, and Sherlock is forever terrified of growing uncontrolled again. That’s why he hides the potion well and mixes the ingredients himself. Better safe than sorry, as Mrs. Hudson often preaches.

  
Sherlock wonders if John will still smile at him when he finds out he is a potential drugged monster, then disregards the thought. John will never find out, easy as that.

  
What exactly happened between the two of them this evening? Of course, John must be the most interesting person Sherlock has ever encountered. A limping healer and ex-auror, broke up with his girlfriend, spontaneously decided to be a teacher, used to play Quidditch, popular at school, had about fifteen girlfriends — and presumably two boyfriends —, is friendly and patient from the outside but his career establishes the fact that there is a hidden steeliness and brutality behind the kind blue eyes.  
Victor was never on that interesting level.

  
Yet, Sherlock could not risk it. He had never tried being in a relationship, or kissing. Or, anything else.

  
_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

  
These words from his brother Mycroft may as well be their family’s motto. Most events in Sherlock’s past have proven his brother right.

  
Aside from that, there is also his secret to think about. Anyone coming closer to him could find out about him being a werewolf. Sherlock’s heart stutters when he even contemplates his secret getting revealed. He would never find work again, and the work is all he has.

  
He closes the curtains with his wand and throws the blanket over him. Tomorrow, dozens of students will expect him to be healthy, interesting and engaging, and Sherlock needs to sleep for that, no matter what he would prefer.

  
In his dreams, Sherlock and John fly on their brooms under a round moon.


	2. Growing Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of school arrives with a handful of nervous students and even more nervous teachers.

_My dear brother,_   
  
_I have received the news that you arrived at Hogwarts for your second year. Mummy and I are very pleased, and I hope McGonagall will send me glowing reviews about you at the end of the term. Until then, I_

  
  
Sherlock crumbles the letter and drowns it in his orange juice. His barn owl Athena happily takes a sip from it, then flies off again.

  
“Bad news?“ John asks him amused.

  
“My brother. He always loves to stick his nose into other peoples business.“ Sherlock snarls.

  
“So, there are two of you?“ John asks with a bit of acted panic in his voice.

  
Sherlock does not answer. The idea of him and Mycroft being one unit displeases him greatly.

  
“Don’t worry, I still think you are quite unique.“ John jokes, noticing Sherlock’s discomfort. Sherlock chokes on his hot cup of tea, and John claps his back until he stops coughing.

  
“Can he do deductions too?"

“Unfortunately, yes. It is a family trait."

The Great Hall around them, oblivious to their talking, is buzzing with the students being excited about school starting again and being reunited with their friends, while the teachers stir their tea to look more energetic.

  
“Good luck for your first day.“ Sherlock tells him after they finish their breakfast. John wishes him “A brilliant day.“, which Sherlock thinks is a bit of an overstatement. It’s a school, not the morgue at St. Mungo’s.

  
“I have noticed that you and Professor Watson are getting along well.“ Flitwick tells him on their way to their respective classrooms.

  
“Yes, we talked a bit. He suggested starting an amateur Quidditch team for the students.“ Sherlock explains.

  
“It is always nice to find fellow comrades. Us teachers are working alone in the classrooms every day, so it is even more important to have a fellow professor to talk to.“ Flitwick says. “I was hoping to win Professor Watson for my newly started duellist club. As a former auror, I’m sure he can show the students some tricks.“ Sherlock nods, though he is not sure how much John will like being reminded of his unfortunate accident.

  
“I want to see you there as well. Whenever you have time.“ Flitwick suddenly says and runs off to his first lesson. Sherlock’s stomach does an unpleasant turn. Of course the other teachers know that Sherlock tried to become an auror before things turned sour. He does not like to be reminded of it.  
Sherlock is hurrying down the stairs to his potion classroom. He can hear the first graders chatting happily, and Sherlock reminds himself to have a confident voice, stand straight and smile, but not too much so the students won’t get cocky. Being a teacher resembles being an actor, only you are on stage not for two or three hours, but all the time, every day. It is exhausting of course, but Sherlock accepts the challenge and tries to make something good out of it.

  
He walks down in the most intimating way possible, the door closing with a soft bang. The chatting abruptly stops and silence descends on the classroom. Sherlock lights the dozen candles on the ceiling with a wave of his hands. The group of eleven years old — the new Ravenclaws and Hufflepaffs\- stare at him with huge eyes.

  
The position as potion teacher has not been very popular for decades. There is of course the whole scandal with Severus Snape, who bullied every student he did not like, used discriminating slurs and joined the Dark Side. He may have acted as a spy, motivated by a crush in his teenager years, but he remained a fear of many students. His successor, Slughorn, was much more gentle and actually taught the students instead of just writing instructions on the blackboard. Last year, the old professor decided to travel the world and apparently also write a book about teaching both Tom Riddle and Harry Potter, and that is how Sherlock got the job from McGonagall.

  
Sherlock recalls all of that in a second. It is important to earn their respect, but they need to learn something in his lesson too.

  
“Good morning everyone, and welcome to your first potion lesson. Apart from your other classes, you can leave your wand pretty much in your school bags. What I will require from you is to work precisely, patiently, and most importantly, don’t ever drink anything without me saying you are allowed to.“

  
A few students smile, so Sherlock counts that as a good sign.

  
“Today, we will work on making a very simple tincture, which lessens the effect on many potions and is often used in medicine. At the end of the lesson, I will check your work and if it’s alright, we will save it in the cupboard. You will need it as an ingredient for our next lesson.“

  
The students nod. Sherlock continues.

  
“Now, I know the book “Magical Drafts and Potions“ by Arsenius Jigger was on your shopping list you received with your Hogwarts letter. If for whatever reason you could not buy it, leave me a note on my desk at the end of the lesson and I will provide one copy for you.“ He will just order it from Flourish & Blotts using Mycroft’s Gringotts Bank account. Helping his economically less fortunate students and stealing money from Mycroft (his brother is so rich he won’t notice) on one day. It is a treat.

  
“To give you an incentive for the next weeks, let me show you a potion I have prepared especially for today.“ He directs the nervous group to his work table, where a small pot is brewing. The smell coming from it reminds Sherlock of a sunny spring day.

  
He pours a few drops of in it on his open palm. Under the curious eyes of the first graders, a small, lilac flower grows out of the thick substance. A few gasps and someone even claps. Sherlock presents the small flower to one of the girls standing around, who accepts it with a whispered thank-you.

  
“Who wants to try next?“ Sherlock asks, and hands the ladle around. In a matter of minutes, everyone has flower in their hair, and after some enthusiastic convincing, Sherlock puts one flower into his hair, behind his ear.

  
Later, he runs around the classroom and impresses the class with his deduction skills, by commenting on where they spent their holidays (three were in the United States — boring). It is helpful to show off in front of the first graders, so they won’t try lying about their homework getting stolen by owls.

  
The rest of the lesson goes by smoothly. Sherlock walks from table to table to check everyone’s process and improves the tincture here or there. At the end of the ninety minutes, all first graders have a functioning ingredient and Sherlock has two book orders on his table.

  
There is only a small break of fifteen minutes, in which Sherlock can just barely clean the room and prepare the next flower potion. The incoming Gryffindors and Slytherins are a bit louder, Sherlock can hear them through the wooden door.

  
When Sherlock suddenly hears screams, he throws the door open. One Slytherin boy is clutching the robe of a Gryffindor girl, and they are engaged in a screaming match.

  
“ENOUGH!“ Sherlock shouts over the crying students. The two fighting children are whisked apart by their classmates.

  
“What is this about?“ Sherlock demands.

  
“She said that all Slytherin are criminals.“ The boy accuses and points at the Gryffindor girl.

  
“They are! My Mom told me all about it. You helped You-know-who in the Second Wizard War!.“

  
“Alright, everyone in the classroom, now.“ Sherlock groans. By Merlin’s beard, where have all the nice and polite Hufflepaffs and Ravenclaws gone? Why is he developing a headache on the first day of work?

  
The students settle next to their tables and at least try to appear contrite.

  
“First, don’t let your house define who you are, or more importantly, who you want to be. You are still growing up, and so will your character change. Also, lumping every house member for something a few did is illogical. We can all agree on that. I will not accept any more fighting between the houses in my presence, is that understood?“

  
The students stare remorseful at their desks and nod. Sherlock sighs and rubs his aching forehead. He contemplates skipping the flowers experiment, but he does not want to ruin their first school day any further.  
Onto the next round.

“Good morning everyone…“

* * *

  
With a long-lasting sign, Sherlock finishes scrubbing the last work table. The cleaning-up process at the end of every school day is certainly his least favourite part, but according to McGonagall it is “A necessary task and only a bloody fool would allow students to work on a stained and possibly dangerous desk.“

  
In short, there he is. Sherlock throws the wet towel over the rack and grabs the book orders from his table. He will send his barn owl, Athena, this evening to Flourish & Blotts to buy them.

  
Right now, he has an entirely different problem. The cleaning has taken longer than he anticipated, and there is simply no time for a shower or a change of clothes before his meeting with John.  
Sherlock drags his fingers through his curls as a poor substitute for a comb. He hopes there won’t be too many cobwebs in his hair and he won't smell that much. The odor of a room filled with blubbering potions is not often enjoyable for others.

  
Sherlock stops himself on the moving staircases. Why exactly would he care about whether he looks good or not? John is a fellow professor, his colleague. Maybe he could be a… friend.

  
Friend. Sherlock does not have many of those. There is Molly, Irene and Janine of course, with whom he spent his time at Hogwarts together. They still write regularly to each other, sending their owls back and forth. Molly is busy with being a healer, Janine has a nice position at the Daily Prophet, writing the gossip comments, and Irene, as a fellow half-blood like him, is taking care of pureblood children. She is teaching them basic maths and science, but she enjoys the trips to London the most, where they are trying to pass as muggles for training. Irene loves studying the latest muggle fashion and enjoys showing off her skills in front of clueless wizards.  
There is also Lestrade, who he met through his annoying older brother, Mycroft. Lestrade is working as Mycroft’s guard, as if Mycroft could not perfectly defend himself. As the de facto prime minister, he is entitled to any security measures he needs, but Sherlock suspects Mycroft keeps Lestrade mainly for company.

  
Yes, John could be a friend. Sherlock has already more friends than he ever expected. He did not get along with about ninety percent of his school peers. He said too many deductions out loud, and he stopped too late. The next seven years, Sherlock was shoved down the stairs, kicked under the table, his pens were stolen, his books were ripped apart, and every budger was thrown into his direction so the lithe seeker would fall from his broom. Of course, Sherlock answered all these attacks with vicious words, but the mean nickname freak‘ stuck with him.

  
In his sixth school year, Victor, a blond boy from Hufflepaff, had invited Sherlock to a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. Victor had been attentive and nice as well, until Sherlock must have done something wrong, why else would Victor have called him a freak‘ only days later?

  
It would be better if he and John do not grow too close. Sherlock has a tendency to drive off those closest to him.

  
It is better not think about.

  
The stairs move again (cue a bunch of screaming first years) and Sherlock concentrates back on his moving feet and not on his miserable school-days, which are long over anyway. As a teacher, he can ensure that today’s students will enjoy wonderful years at Hogwarts, and that is what counts. He wonders if John is having difficulties moving around Hogwarts with his cane. Another reason to hurry up with fixing it.

  
John’s classroom is in one of the towers, and Sherlock sprints up the long-winding staircase. Most of the children are already outside, laying in the sunshine, or walking through the grounds, enjoying the good weather. John’s classroom is empty apart from the teacher, and Sherlock takes a curious glance around. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has hung up a few posters with helpful commentaries on how to approach that dangerous situation. There is a big picture of a dementor hanging on the back of the classroom, and right next to it…

  
Sherlock gulps. He walks closer to read the words written next to the painted werewolf on the poster. The werewolf fletches his long teeth and his arms are positioned to attack.

  
_On a full moon, the werewolf turns into a dangerous beast, biting or sometimes even eating his human victims. With their bites, they subject their victim to the same gruesome fate. Extreme caution is required. If you see or hear a werewolf, flee immediately and connect the aurors._

  
Sherlock wonders if he resembles this painted werewolf. Or if Sherlock looks even scarier.

  
“Do you like the decorations I put up? I wanted to give the third graders an overview about their schedule this year. They are a bit outdated, but I didn’t find anything better.“ John says, appearing behind him. The former healer rubs his hands, appearing to be satisfied.

  
“It is nice.“ Sherlock says, averting his eyes from the terrifying werewolf poster. “How was your first day teaching?“ He reminds his manners.

  
“It went well. I did not have to call the nurse once. I heard Mrs Pomfrey is retired?“

  
“Yes, there is a new nurse now, but I haven’t met her yet.“ Sherlock wonders if John likes small talk, or if he is as bored by this kind of socializing as he is. One glance at John’s shaking hands confirms it.

  
“Do you want a cup of tea?“ John asks abruptly, and Sherlock accepts. The two sit down at John’s teacher table. Sherlock rubs his frozen fingers (his fingers always go cold when he is nervous).

  
“We will have to work around the schedule of the teams of the Houses. I think we should sort them into two groups, one from eleven to fourteen years old and the other one from fifteen to seventeen.“

  
Sherlock nods. John continues with his plans.

  
“At the start of each training, I want to do some warming-up with the kids before they climb on their brooms. Meaning, some running around, maybe a few push-ups, and I want to practice throwing and catching the balls of course.“

  
“I can take over the jogging until your leg is healed.“ Sherlock throws in.

  
John stares at him nonplussed: “Are you actually serious about this, that you can heal my leg? Because, let me tell you, several healers have tried it and failed.“

  
“I am not a healer, and this not a hospital. You just need enough action to forget about your limp.“

  
John snorts into his tea cup: “You cannot just forget pain.“

  
“Just give it a few more weeks. It will be fine.“

  
"You are awfully confident. I don’t think you have ever been called modest before.“

  
Sherlock drinks his tea without comment.

  
“We can burrow the brooms from Madame Hooch’s closet, so that should be no problem. I would suggest we try children badgers first. The biggest challenge will be to keep everyone sitting on their broom, we don’t need flying cannon balls on top of that.“

  
“You thought a lot about this already.“ Sherlock says.

  
John shrugs: “I was so excited when McGonagall told me about her plans, I started planning right away. I knew I could not do it alone, so I was hoping I would find a volunteer.“

  
Sherlock laughs: “What would you have done if I said no?“

  
“I would have blackmailed you with something, I’m sure there is something you hide, everyone does. Or, I would have bought you a monthly supply of sweets from the Honeydukes.“

  
Sherlock forces himself to smile, and to control his quickly beating heart. He does have a dark secret, and after seeing that damned poster, he wants it to stay a secret from John even more.

  
“I like the flying licorice.“ He offers instead.

  
“Really?“

  
“Yeah, why?“

  
“I think you are the first person I know who likes that bloody stuff.“

  
“Even better, that leaves more for me.“

  
The two finish their tea in comfortable silence. From outside, they can hear the children laughing. Maybe they were throwing each other into the Great Lake again.

  
“Alright, I just have to ask.“

  
Sherlock concentrates back on John: “What is it?“

  
“The flower in your hair.“ John gesticulates to Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock froze. He completely forgot about the flower experiment!

  
“Oh, sorry.“ Sherlock says and tries finding the flower and ripping it out of his curls, but a warm hand on his wrist stops him.

  
“No, leave it in! I think you look very… cute with it.“ John says, and Sherlock does not know who is blushing harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment or a kudos. They mean the world to me <3.


	3. An Unpleasant Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John start with their Quidditch training.

John and Sherlock have spent the last three weeks planning their Quidditch sport course in every free minute they had left. Meanwhile, the lessons have begun in earnest, and Sherlock has read through his students homework all week-long.

  
“What a wonderful day for Quidditch.“ John exclaims happily on the last weekend in September, gesticulating to the clear sky. The two teachers have carried all the spare brooms to their tent (Sherlock did carry the most brooms, since John still has only one arm free), and are now waiting for the participants to arrive.

  
Sherlock humms in agreement. The students will be nervous enough, without a dazzling rain on top of that.

  
“Have you spoken to Madame Hooch?“ John asks him.

  
“Yes, we met on Wednesday. Every first year managed to hold themselves on their broom for at least five seconds.“

  
“It is unlikely that we will get the most terrified ones. Hopefully, every participant will have flown a round on their broom before.“

  
“How many signed up?“

  
John takes a note out of his pocket: “Fourteen for the younger course, twenty for the older course.“

  
Sherlock whistles: “That is quite a lot.“

  
“Maybe not everyone will turn up.“ John says, and opens their tent. A group of fourteen kids have gathered on the green grass on the Quidditch field. Sherlock spies two first years, five second years, four third years and three fourth years. Eight girls and six boys.

  
“Wait, I know that one Gryffindor — he accidentally‘ burned a hole through his table.“ John whispers to him.

  
“Oh yes, i know him, that must be Allen Marks- he managed to get poisoned in my first ever potion class last year. He drank his own creation, although I explicitly told them not to.“

  
“Christ…“ John mumbles.

  
They have reached the waiting students. They are all wearing comfortable jeans, sneakers and pullovers, so no cloak will get tangled between the broom and their legs.

  
Sherlock lets John do the talking.

  
“Hello everyone. Professor Holmes and I are very pleased that so many of you decided to sign up for our new Quidditch course. Does everyone have experiences with flying on broomsticks.“

  
All students raise their hands.  
  


“Wonderful, though we will need the brooms today only in the second half of the lesson. First, we will do something called warming-up.“

  
The students groan, evidently not happy with the proposed schedule. John ignores them.

  
“You will all run two rounds around the Quidditch field. It does not matter how long it takes or how slowly you run, we’ll wait.“ Nobody moves, until John claps his hands. “Let’s go!“

  
The students slowly start moving, and the two teachers start getting the Quaffles. They have decided to keep the other balls in the closet for now.

  
Fifteen minutes later, all children have returned. Sherlock notices that Allen’s face is nearly purple from the exercise. Serves him right for burning a table.

  
“Very good. We will continue with throwing and catching a ball.“ John says, and throws the Quaffle to a large Ravenclaw girl, called Alex, who catches the red ball with ease.

  
“Professor Watson, my little brother can do that.“ Bille from Slytherin complains.

  
“Then it should be childs play for you.“ Sherlock answers back.

  
“Find yourself a partner. Everyone throws and catches the ball five times, after that I want you to run between the pylons Professor Holmes will put out. Throw the ball to each other while running, and don’t lose sight of your surroundings.“ John claps again, and the students are a lot more motivated this time. Sherlock wonders if he should get John a whistle for their next Quidditch training…

  
If John wanted presents from Sherlock, of course.

  
Sherlock and John walk around the field, watching the kids. Most of them throw the ball around with ease. Only a smaller Slytherin, Quentin, lets the ball drop.

  
“You have to catch the ball with your closed arms, then pull the ball to your chest so you can’t lose it.“ Sherlock advises him, and it works better after a few more tries.

  
Taking it all together, John and Sherlock are satisfied with their first Quidditch lesson. For the last twenty minutes they get the brooms out, and the students chatter excitedly while they fight over the broomsticks.

  
“I want you all to fly five rounds around the field, then fly a few times up and down if you want to. The last exercise will be throwing the ball to each other while flying.“

  
“Will you and Professor Holmes fly with us?“ Allen asks, and John nods after receiving a positive answer from Sherlock.

  
As Sherlock climbs on his broom — the newest firebolt, a gift from Mycroft — he cannot help but feel nervous. What if he spectacularly fails in front of John?

  
John, who is sitting on his Nimbus already, glances at Sherlock’s firebolt.  
  


“Posh boy.“ The teacher grumbles, and Sherlock whips around. His stomach does a turn.

“Sorry?“

  
“Of course you own the newest edition.“ John teases him, and Sherlock knows that John is not trying to be mean, though being called ‚posh boy‘ by John awakens something strange in him.

  
“I’ve got it as a gift from my brother.“ He answers. Sherlock does not mention that he received it for his continued sobriety, and the two teachers join the students in the air.

  
The rest of the lesson flies by pleasantly, and finally, John calls everyone together to for one last conversation.  
Everyone returns, except for Allen and another boy from Gryffindor.

  
“Where are they?“ John asks. Nobody answers him, and Sherlock stares in the sky with a bad feeling. He spies two broomsticks, high above the field, certainly much higher than they are allowed.

  
“I will get them.“ John says, and surges higher. Sherlock observes him, imagining how the air gets colder up in the air, a sign of the colder seasons approaching.

  
Suddenly, there is a loud scream carried over by the wind. Sherlock can just catch the two broomsticks colliding. One of the boys manages to hang onto their broom, the other one slips and falls.

  
By Merlin’s beard, no. A growing mountain of paperwork forms itself in Sherlock's mind.

  
John leans closer to his broom and takes aim at the falling body. The boy’s weight nearly manages to knock John down from his broom as well, but he somehow arrives safe on the ground, with the Gryffindor boy — Allen, of course its Allen, reckless boy — hanging onto him. The other boy follows and lands as well.

  
John jumps from his broom and is immediately next to them, checking Allen’s head. The boy has a bleeding gash on his forehead, and the other boy is clutching his wrist. The other students form a circle around them, murmuring.

  
“That’s the end of the lesson. Leave your brooms here and go back inside.“ John orders angrily, and Sherlock notices how much he likes hearing him speak with his authoritative voice.

  
Maybe a thought for another time.

  
The students hurry away, whispering to each other. Sherlock hopes that they won’t send a letter detailing the events to their parents.

  
“What were you thinking, you two complete idiots!“ Sherlock says, giving the two boys his best teacher stare.

  
John continues: “The nurse will take a look at your head, and your wrist may be sprained.“ Sherlock helps Allen and Scott, the other boy with the hurt wrist, up. “And we will talk about your dangerous behaviour later.“ Sherlock adds, and the two boys hang their heads, no doubt imagining their parents reaction.

  
“Please don’t throw us out of the club, Professor.“ Scotts begs, pressing his hand to his chest.

  
“We will talk about this later.“ John repeats, and the four make their way to the hospital wing.

  
All the hospital beds are empty, and John steers the two boys to one of them.

  
“Nurse, are you there?“ Sherlock calls out, and a woman around their age appears. She has short, blonde hair, bright eyes and John furiously inhales when he sees her, his whole body turning into fight mode.

  
“What are you doing here?“ John presses out. His hands are steady.

  
This must be Mary Morstan, John’s ex-girlfriend, Sherlock realizes immediately. What is she doing here?

  
“I’m the new nurse, of course.“ Miss Morstan says, smiling brightly at the group. “What do we have here?“ She addresses the two Gryffindor students.

  
“They collided on their broomsticks.“ Sherlock explains, and Miss Morstan shakes her head disapprovingly.

  
“Quidditch should be forbidden. This sport is way too dangerous.“

  
“Miss, please. It was our fault.“ Allen protests, who does not accept any negative Quidditch comments around him.

  
“Hmm.“ She says, not bothered, while checking Allen’s forehead. Sherlock and John take a step back to give them some room. John is clearing his throat and stares out of the window, his face hard.

  
Miss Morstan finishes her work quickly, and clears both of them ready to go. The two boys close the heavy door behind them, and John does not wait for another second.

  
“Mary, what the hell are you doing here?“ He grits out. Mary gathers her supplies and straightens her back.

“Same as you do. McGonagall asked for a new school nurse, I applied and got the job.“ Mary twitters happily.

  
Sherlock decides that he dislikes her voice. It’s grating on his nerves.

  
“Why?“ John barks.

  
Mary shrugs: “After our break-up, I needed a new beginning. I left my position at St. Mungo and came here.“

  
“And that is all there is to it?“ John asks, clutching his cane.

  
“Of course.“ Mary throws her head back and laughs: “Why, do you think I’m stalking you?“

  
John crosses his arms, his cane momentarily forgotten. This exact thought must have crossed his mind, and Mary hurriedly walks back her question. She suddenly opts for a very different tone.

  
I’m actually really glad you got the position as Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, I bet your students can learn a lot from you.“ Mary winks at him and battles her eyelashes.

  
John ignores Mary and rather puts his hand on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock can feel the warmth of his hand through his thick coat. He hopes John will never stop these casual touches. He enjoys it even more when he notices Mary’s annoyed reaction to it, which she quickly hides behind another smile.

  
“Do you want to go to my room? We can ask the house elves for a cup of hot chocolate. Helps against the shock.“ He suggests. Sherlock nods, his heart thumping. John is actually inviting Sherlock to spend time with him in their free time!

  
“Professor Holmes, may I have a quick word with you? I heard you have a supply of potions against headaches. Some students have been complaining about migraines.“ Mary interjects his triumph.

  
“I will wait outside.“ John says curtly and turns abruptly around. Sherlock and Mary listen to the clonk of his cane disappearing.

  
Mary turns around, her former friendly smile suddenly much more sinister.

  
“Poor John.“ She sighs. “After the curse, he was never quite the same.“

  
“He will be.“ Sherlock says confidently. “John just needs more time.“

  
“Hmm.“ Mary repeats. Sherlock wants to leave.

  
“So, how much of the potion do you need?“ He asks, but Mary disrupts him.

  
“Keep your fingers off him.“ She snarls, and there is nothing left of the gentle nurse from before.

  
Sherlock blinks: “I’m sorry?“

  
Mary takes a few steps closer and is now in Sherlock’s private place. Sherlock resists the urge to push her away.

  
“I said: Keep your fingers off him.“ She says, pronouncing every word carefully. “He is mine.“

  
“John is his own person.“ Sherlock snaps back, highly irritated by her tone.

  
“John needs someone healthy in his life, someone with stability and empathy.“ Mary says convinced. “I made a mistake, but that is in the past. I have changed, and John will notice that. He will remember how well we worked together. Then, John will come back to me.“

  
Sherlock snorts: “You have high confidence in your abilities. What makes you think I’m your opponent?“

  
She ignores his question, although Sherlock would have liked an explanation. Does she think John is interested in him?

  
And how does this idea make him feel?

  
“Don’t play stupid with me. I know people, and I can find out things about you that you would better want to keep a secret.“

  
Sherlock tries to hide his shock. What is she hinting at? Him getting thrown out from the aurors? His drug addiction? Or even…

  
“We are done here, Miss Morstan.“ Sherlock barks, his coat swinging behind him.

  
“Call me Mary, Sherlock.“ She purrs, and Sherlock bangs the door close, his hands shaking.

* * *

  
John’s rooms is very comfortable, with two seats standing next to the burning fireplace. His broom is hanging over the fireplace, his desks is full of essays, and he has red curtains, no doubt as a reminder of the Gryffindor’s common rooms. Sherlock can spy multiple bottles of scotch behind a glass door, but they are all unopened and untouched. Maybe Sherlock is not the only one with a past addiction.

  
“Take a set.“ John invites him, and Sherlock slumps into the black leather seat. John sits opposite into the red one and hands him a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

  
The two sit there in comfortable silence, slurping their drink and watching the burning logs.

  
“It was great how you caught Allen. He would have been seriously injured if it weren’t for you.“ Sherlock says.

  
“You would have done the same.“

  
“Maybe, but it was you.“

  
John smiles proudly: “Thank you, Sherlock.“ He clutches his hot mug and stares into the fireplace, appearing to be deep in thought.

  
“It’s weird that I don’t remember you from our shared school years at Hogwarts.“ John contemplates and sips his hot chocolate.

  
Sherlock shrugs: “I spend most of the time either in my room or in a deserted corner in the library. We wouldn’t have met.“

  
“I still believe I should remember you.“

  
“Why?“ Sherlock asks, confused. Surely John was always surrounded by a groupie of supporters and would not be interested in meeting Sherlock.

  
“You are not a person someone can forget easily.“ John says, and Sherlock chokes on his hot chocolate. He starts coughing, and John leans forward and pats him on the back.

  
“Did Mary say anything else to you after I left?“

  
“She just inquired about the potion for the headaches.“ The lie rolls easily off his tongue. Sherlock does not want to bring John into this stupid rivalry game, whatever Mary is playing.

  
The two teachers finish their drink, making small talk about their lessons.

  
“How do we want to punish the two boys?“ John asks.

  
Sherlock shrugs: “Write a note to McGonagall, and a letter detailing the accident to their parents. They may attend the training, but for the next three lessons, they are not allowed to fly.“

  
John nods: “That sounds reasonable.“

  
“Allen Mark's mothers will have something much more gruesome as a punishment than we can come up with.“

  
John raises one eyebrow: “Really?“

“Yup. Whenever they receive a letter from Hogwarts, they will cut his weekly sweet supply they send.“

  
“Speaking of sweets… McGonagall asked me if I wanted to plan the Halloween party this year. I’m afraid I’m terrible over my head with this task, so, would you be willing to help me?“

  
“Sure!“ Sherlock exclaims. He loves Halloween, and his head is already brimming with ideas.

  
“We are not allowed to go into the Forbidden Forest with them, though.“ John throws in, and Sherlock slumps together in disappointment.

  
“Do you have any ideas?“ John asks him, and Sherlock beams: “We can ask Professor Longbottom and Hagrid for these extra large pumpkins, where students can sit in. We have to decorate the Great Hall of course, and we need to spread cobwebs everywhere. I can also do a less powerful version of Polyjuice Potion, so the students can have realistic costumes!“

  
“Is using Polyjuice Potion for a Halloween costume legal?“ John asks carefully, but Sherlock winks his concerns away.

  
“It will only work for two or three hours, and they won’t change the whole body, only hair, height and eye colour.“ Sherlock appeases him.

  
“Okay…“ John says, then thinks: “I can order the sweets from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and the Honeypot.“

  
“Great.“ Sherlock claps his hands together, and the two engage in ambitious party planning for another hour.

  
Sherlock is gathering his stuff together when John suddenly confesses: “She cheated on me, with  
someone working at St. Mungo’s, David Something. Multiple times, in fact. I was furious and I moved out.“

  
“Sorry to hear that.“ Sherlock says helplessly. John is staring into the flames, lost in thought.

  
“I don’t know why she is here now, but I hope she leaves me alone.“ John says, and puts the two cups into his sink.

  
Sherlock whispers “Me too.“ too himself, but he is too far away for John to understand him.

  
Mary Morstan has definitely unnerved both of them, and Sherlock does not like that.


	4. Trick or Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Halloween night brings some surprises to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying their December. We are halfway through with this story!!

On some days, everything goes wrong. Someone oversleeps, spill tea on your shirt, arrive late at work, miss lunch break, and more catastrophes. Even worse, teachers don’t get to hide behind their office desk, they need to be on a stage, with dozens of eyes watching their every movement.

It is the day after the full moon, and Sherlock has a headache. He has not slept a minute the last two nights. Instead, he scratched his skin in pain and threw up the glass of water he forced down his throat.

  
It is a Friday in October, and possibly the last sunny day this year, so the fourth graders today are grating on his last nerves. Two Ravenclaw girls, Alex and Leila, have broken up, and the other students are taking sides. The potion today is the Tolipan Blemish Blitzer, which cures acne. It was requested by the students at the start of the semester, but nobody cares about that now. Everyone is talking about the break-up or their weekend plans for Hogsmead, and literally no one cares for the steaming potion in front of them.

  
Sherlock puts his aching forehead on his table and tries to blend out the loud noises around them. He barely got any sleep the past nights, the cramps kept him awake.  
In ten minutes, the week will be over, and he only has about fifty essays to grade till next week. It is fine, it is all fine. Only five minutes more, and he can tell them to start cleaning up. He will close his eyes for just a second…

  
“AHHHHHHH! Willow you fucking idiot!“ Oliver has left his desk and is now jumping up and down, trying to extinguish his burning pergament. Willow is watching the spectacle, her wand still raised. Leila is storming out of the room, crying hysterically.

  
If it was noisy before, now, the classroom explodes with flying accusations, Oliver scrambling for his own wand and an exhausted teacher who watches the chaos with resignation.

  
“ENOUGH!“ He shouts, and the students freeze in shock. Sherlock isn’t a teacher who shouts, he prefers to lower his voice when he desires attention. Not today, though. Today, the headache is killing him, and he wants to jump into the Great Lake and not resurface until Monday morning.

  
Sherlock gets his wand out and extinguishes the burning pergament.

  
“Everyone, clean up your working space. I will see you next week. Willow, you will replace Oliver’s paper. Oliver, you will apologize for whatever you said. Alex, tell Leila that you two will keep your personal crises out of my classroom. Is that understood?“

  
Thankfully, nobody protests, and the students are slowly trickling out of his room. Sherlock gathers his work together and climbs up the stairs to his room. A few kids wish him a good weekend, but he barely hears them over the ringing sound in his ears.  
His room is stuffed with homework to grade, plans for the upcoming lessons, notes for the Halloween party, a map for all their Quidditch players… Sherlock feels overwhelmed and not at all ready to deal with any of it. He simply lets his bag drop on the only free chair and falls into the unmade bed.

  
Only three years before, Sherlock would have gone to London, bought cocaine or heroin or whatever was available in the muggle underworld and shot up. His veins ache when he thinks about it. He had made a promise to his parents, Mycroft, McGonagall, Flitwick and to himself, but on some days, this promise feels far away.

  
Sherlock rolls on his back and stares at the dozens of papers. His student will expect their graded work back next Wednesday. They want to know how much more they will need to study. They will be disappointed if he doesn’t grade them.

  
Instead, he just keeps staring at the papers, until it has become too dark to see anything.

  
Sherlock wonders if he is a bad teacher. The lesson material does not come easy to him, his ideas are often too difficult for the learners. He is never sure if he reacted right in a situation or not or if he has even made it worse.

  
Molly has sent him a letter this week, telling him about her new black cat, Toby. Sherlock should be polite and answer her, but his bed is much more comfortable than the world outside it.

  
Molly deserves a better friend. The students deserve a better teacher, and McGonagall deserves a colleague who is not knocked out every month thanks to an incurable disease.

  
John deserves -

* * *

He is here, leaning over Sherlock’s face with a concerned look on his face.

  
“Are you feeling alright?“

  
Sherlock does not answer.

  
John goes to his table, packs all the paper work quickly out of side and lights a candle.

  
“You did not appear for lunch or dinner. I was getting worried.“

  
Sherlock turns on his side and buries his head in the pillows. Now, John even feels the duty to check up on Sherlock, as if the former healer has not more things to worry about.

  
He feels his bed dip a bit, and seconds later, there is a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock can feel the warmth radiating from it through his thin shirt.

  
“Do you need anything? I brought biscuits, if you are hungry. And I can call for tea.“

  
Sherlock wants to answer, but the hand on his shoulder is weighing him down into a long-wished slumber. He sighs, the breath emitting releases his tension too, and he finally allows himself to close his eyes.

  
“Sleep, Sherlock. Sleep well.“ John whispers, his fingers ghosting through Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock sleeps.

  
In the morning, John is still there (he must have slept on the sofa next to the now burning fireplace). They do some small-talk about this and that (and for once, Sherlock does not hate it) and eat the now hard biscuits.

  
Sherlock wants to thank John for visiting and staying with him the night, but he does not know how. He presses his palms against his legs and fidgets around on the seat.

  
“I have to assist Filch today with checking the Hogsmead permits. After that, I propose we’ll go to my office and go through the Halloween schedule.“ John announces cheerfully, chucking on his jacket.

  
“Why did you come yesterday?“ Sherlock blurts out, pressing his nails into his palm to hide his nervousness.

  
“I am your friend.“ John shrugs casually, as if this isn’t the most beautiful and at the same time damning thing Sherlock has ever had.

  
“I don’t have friends.“ He whispers to the closing door.

  
“Yes, you do.“ John says, and he is gone. Sherlock sits for a few more minutes with this pleasant feeling, then searches for his pen to write Molly back.

  
The essays can wait.

* * *

  
The looks of absolute delights on so many faces makes their hard work of the last weeks definitely worthwhile. Sherlock is sitting on his chair in the Great Hall, observing everyone’s entrance. The teachers really outdone themselves this year.  
On the left and right side of the Hall are the gigantic pumpkins that Hagrid has grown this year again. First and second graders are crawling into the pumpkins and snapping pictures together with their cameras.  
The four tables are close to collapsing due to the massive amount of candy and other stuff which Sherlock believes the muggles call fast food‘. John took care of the menu. Smaller pumpkins are hanging from the ceiling, their ghostly smiles throwing shadows to the walls, while the ceiling is exploding with sparks and thunder. Later, the ghosts will perform a special play for everyone who can stand to watch that stuff without falling unconscious. The Nearly Headless Nick has been practising his famous head trick‘ for weeks.  
Of course, the festivity is not only in the Great Hall. The knight statues are tasked with patrolling every night and maybe to sneak up on a student or two. The figures in the paintings are visiting each other and singing weirdly scary rhymes to everyone who walks upon them.  
The masterpiece however is Sherlock’s slightly adjusted Polyjuice Potion. Sherlock has guarded his own hair well this week, he certainly does not want multiple version of him running around. Fortunately, the majority of the students have opted to dress as their best friends and vice versa, and nobody has complained yet.

  
“Mr. Holmes, you and Professor Watson have really outdone yourself.“ Flitwick says appraisingly. The charms professor is wearing a vampire costume and has even sharpened his front teeth to make them look more frightening. The message of the thoughtful costume however gets a bit lost, considering that the charms teacher has never hurt a fly in his entire life.

  
“Your costume is wonderful, Professor.“ Sherlock says (in a way, John Watson has taught him the power of a compliment) and Flitwick beams with pride.

  
Most of the other Hogwarts teachers have opted to wear their usual black costumes to not let the students believe that the rules can be thrown out of the window today. McGonagall has donned her usual green hat, but with a large spider net as an accessorize on the side. Professor Longbottom, the herbology teacher, is wearing a red gown and large orange wings. Sherlock has expected this costume when the shy teacher had asked him last week about a potion that makes a person spit fire. This costumes certainly has the potential to either be spectacular or burn the castle down.

  
Through the celebrating crowd of teenagers, John limps through, receiving praise for the decorations from all sides. With a content sigh, he falls down on his usual place next to Sherlock. It has been two months, but Sherlock can no longer imagine spending a meal without the reassuring professor at his side.

  
“We did good work.“ John says happily, gesticulating at the festivities.

  
“I have not received any complaints so far.“ Sherlock sneers, not really meaning it, sipping his pumpkin juice.

  
“Come on, cheer up! In a few hours, everyone will have gone to sleep, and we can finally focus on teaching again. I did not expect party planning to be so stressful.“

  
“A few years ago, my brother and I had to plan our parents wedding anniversary. That was much worse.“

  
“I can imagine. I bet your parents have strong expectations for you.“

  
Sherlock shrugs, not wanting to dwell on his parents. They wanted him to join the aurors, and he tried but… well. It all came crashing down.

  
“Do you want to share the chocolate brownie?“ Sherlock offers instead, pointing at the giant cake. The house elves have created a few special Halloween themed receipts for today.

  
“As long as there are no worms included.“ John says and cuts the brownie into different parts. The two eat their cake (Sherlock does not taste any worms) and watch everyone stuffs themselves with sweets.

  
Something catches Sherlock’s eye. It takes Sherlock a moment to recognize the frankly, not well-put together costume. An older student from Gryffindor has dressed as a werewolf, wearing a brown, fluffy overall with sharp teeth and big paws. His friends are clapping him on his back, cheering him on while he pretends to bite an unassuming girl sitting next to him.

  
Sherlock thinks of the panic that arrives every month. The hard and precise work that is needed to brew a wolfsbane potion, only to still end up with nerve-wrecking cramps, headaches, bad skin, greasy hair and a mood worse than usual. The scar from the bite is burning a hole through his shirt. Sherlock places the spoon back down. He does not believe he can stomach another bite.

  
“I think I’m going to go to bed.“ He whispers quietly to John.

  
John regards him with his worried professional-healer face: “You look a bit pale, actually. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?“

  
Sherlock’s stomach churns at the thought of another beverage. Why does John always expect tea to fix everything?

  
“Thanks, but I’m good. Just need sleep.“ He adds, and now John is even more worried. It is practically radiating off him. Normally, Sherlock would be quietly pleased at John’s reaction. Tonight, his robe is stifling him. He can not breathe.  
  


The walk back to his rooms is endless. The staircases are running wild today, and Sherlock is tempted to just throw himself off. Finally, the door closes behind and he is safe. His bed is welcoming as always, and he does not bother changing into his pyjamas.

  
The werewolf costume is directly there, in the entrance of his mind palace. He can taste their laughters on his tongue, and the look of disgust of the girl who ended up as their victim.

  
His dark secret is a mindless tool for amusement for others.

  
Sherlock drags the blanket over his head and lets the darkness wash away his thoughts.

  
Minutes, or maybe hours later, he is awoken by the loud thumping on his door. Sherlock stumbles to open it with bleary eyes and frizzled hair.

  
John is on the other side, hunched over, panting. Sherlock deduces that the other teacher was awakened by McGonagall just about three minutes ago.

  
“Two students are lost in the Forbidden Forest.“ John says.

  
Sherlock nods, suddenly wide awake: “I will get my coat.“


	5. Lost in the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John look for the missing students and talk about their past.

Every student fears the Forbidden Forest. There are the monsterous acromantulas with their eight legs and black eyes. A herd of white unicorns, hunted by wizards for their powerful blood. The centaurs with their long beards, arrows and their scary predictions for the future. Some say a vampire lives in the darkest area of the forest as well, waiting for their next victim. Another popular theory are the werewolves, who are rumoured to be the source of the howling in some nights. Sherlock is not so sure of that. If there were any other werewolves, he would have known.

  
Each year, once Dumbledore and now McGonagall warn the students, their parents warn them, the ministerium warns them. Each year, on some night, students will decide to walk into the Forbidden Forest anyway.

  
“Who is missing?“ Sherlock asks, shrugging his warm coat on as the two men hurry down the stairs to the forest.

  
“Orla and Samuel, second grade, both from Gryffindor. Oliver confessed that they started a bet. When Orla and Samuel manage to go through the Forbidden Forest, Oliver will do their potion homework for a month.“ John gasps out. He has difficulties keeping up with their quick pace due to his cane.

  
“Of course its Gryffindor.“ Sherlock says and rolls his eyes. Dangerously stupid, all three of them! As if Oliver’s potion essays were something to be proud of.

  
“Oi, our house is not that bad!“ John exclaims.  
  


“Will Hagrid be there to help us search for them?“ Sherlock asks to get away from answering. Having the Keeper of Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts on their side would certainly help.

  
John sighs: “No, unfortunately not. A letter from Madame Maxin arrived, and he left immediately for France. Something with his brother, I believe.“

  
“What about McGonagall, Professor Longbottom, Flitwick?“

  
“They are busy with checking that the other students are all in their safe beds and will join us later.“

  
The Forbidden Forest lies in front of them. No light from the sky shines through it, and it is eerily quiet.

  
“Wands out.“ John whispers, and walks into the forest with confident strides. Sherlock follows his friend and wonders whether John’s fellow aurors were as impressed with his leading abilities as Sherlock is right now.

  
“Lumos!“

  
They run for about ten minutes without encountering a single creature, not even a bird.

  
“Do you think they- .“ John starts, but Sherlock raises his hand, pointing at the ground.

  
“They were here — this must be Orla’s footstep. And this smaller one belongs to Samuel.“

  
Sherlock looks up to check for John’s reaction. The teacher however does not study the footstep, but instead stares at Sherlock.

  
“What?“ Sherlock asks irritated.

  
“I always think you can no longer surprise me with your brilliance, but then you do it so effortlessly.“

  
Thank Merlin it is so dark. Sherlock’s face is burning.

  
“These are footprints. Anyone can find them.“

  
“But it was you.“ John says.

  
“This is nonsense. The children were here only a few minutes ago, we should find them in no time.“ Sherlock says and continues his exploration.

  
They walk deeper and deeper into the forests, and it goes darker. Sherlock hopes Orla and Samuel remembered to take their wands.

  
John tips Sherlock on his shoulder, and Sherlock nearly blows himself into space, so startled is he.  
He follows John’s direction. There is a round opening, a glade, to the left of them. Three thestrals are feeding on the grass there, two female and a younger creature.

  
“They are beautiful.“ Sherlock whispers to himself, but John heard him.

  
“You can see them too?“ John asks. “I was thinking we could ask them for help. The other creatures may leave us alone if we walk with them.“

“Good idea.“ Sherlock says, and they approach the little family carefully. The younger thestral sniffs at Sherlock’s hand, then accepts him as non-threatening. John carefully brushes his (lovely) hands over the biggest thestrals back, and Sherlock wonders how that would feel like.  
Wait, is he jealous of a thestral?

  
“I think they don’t mind a walk in the dark.“ John announces. Their search is promising to be much safer with the thestrals.

  
“Do you think we should call out for them?“ John asks.

  
Sherlock humms: “We might as well risk it. I don’t want to be here all night.“

  
“OOOOOOOORRLLAAAAAA!“

  
“SAAAAAAMUUUUUEEEEEELL!“

  
“OOOORLAAA\- HOLY SHIT!“

  
John fires a red arrow up the trees, and something large with way too many legs flees up the tree.

  
“It was about to jump on you!“ John growls, and shots another arrow just for good measures up in the dark. The large thing crashes through the branches and lands in front of Sherlock’s feet, its legs dangling up.

  
“I hope you did not kill it.“ Sherlock whispers.

  
John shakes his head: “I only shocked it. I don’t want to add started war with Aragog’s family‘ on my résumé.“

  
“Very wise.“ Sherlock scratches his head nervously. One of the female thestrals rubs her head against his arm. It gives credit to these creatures that they did not run away when the spider attacked.

  
“Thank you, that was very nice of you.“

  
John rubs his wand with his sleeve: “It is my job to protect.“

  
“Oh.“ Sherlock’s heart sinks in disappointment. Only a job.

  
“Don’t be stupid. You are my best friend, of course I will shock spiders for you, doesn’t matter who pays me.“

  
Sherlock tries to hide how delighted he is at John’s words.

  
“You are too. I mean, you are also my best friend.“ He stutters, waving his arms through the air as if fighting an owl. One of the thestrals emits something close to a whinny.

  
“Oh, th-thank you.“ John says and kicks at a non-existing stone on the path. The two British wizards stand there in the forest on Halloween, not knowing what to do with their limbs.

  
This could be the start of a nice joke.

  
Two wizards, sitting on a tree -

  
“Professor Watson, Professor Holmes!“ Two voices cry out, and Orla and Samuel break out of a bush, with leaves in their hair and tears in their eyes.

  
“Great, we found you.“ John exclaims a bit lamely. They have both momentarily forgotten what they originally set out to do. “Are you alright? Is anyone hurt?“

  
The two teens shake their heads, and after a quick check John pronounces them healthy: “That’s nothing a hot chocolate and a comfortable bed will not fix. Now, let’s get you out of here.“

  
Sherlock walks upfront, while John ushers the two students quickly along. The thestrals follow them within a safe distance, happy with their part in this successful rescue mission.

  
“What were you thinking? Imagine how your parents and friends must have felt if something happened to you! We were all so scared!“

  
“I’m sorry, Professor Watson.“ Orla whimpers, wiping her running noise. “Are we going to get expelled now?“ Samuel whispers, so quietly Sherlock barely understands him.

  
“I don’t know.“ John answers honestly, although Sherlock has trouble imagining this happening. The Potters and the Weasleys got away with much more dangerous stuff.

  
Sherlock sends his patronus — a tree marten- to deliver the message, and so it is only McGonagall who is waiting for them at the entrance of the Forbidden Forest. Her long grey hair is up in a bun and her eyes are glittering with fury.

  
She offers them a gracious nod as a thank you, then delegates the still crying Orla and Samuel back to the castle. Samuel’s shoulders have dropped so far in shame, they are practically at his knees.

  
“That’s not going to be an enjoyable night for them.“ John muses and ruffles his hair.

  
“Definitely not, McGonagall can be vicious.“ Sherlock agrees, just as Orla turns around and shouts: “Professor Watson, I forgot to tell you, but I think you lost your cane when you found us!“

  
John smiles: “Cheeky girl, that is…“ His eyes wander to his hand, where he always clutched the cane. Except now, there is no cane. The teacher jumps around and stares at the Forest with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing in shock.

  
“I told you it would work. It must have happened when the acromantula attacked me!“ Sherlock says and claps his hands together, entirely satisfied with himself. His theory worked! Although he did not end up doing much at the end.

  
“It… it does not hurt any more.“ John whispers, bending his knee back and forth. A heartbeat passes. Then, he grabs Sherlock by his hips, lifts him clear of the ground and spins Sherlock in circles.

  
It makes Sherlock’s stomach flip, but the utter delight on John’s face and the feeling of John’s strong arms around him makes the trip through the cold forest entirely worthable.

“Thank you.“ John whispers into Sherlock’s shirt, his heated face pressed into it.

  
“You’re welcome. Although you should probably thank the acromantula.“

  
John sets Sherlock back on his feet, and Sherlock immediately misses John’s warmth.

  
“I think I can use that hot chocolate you mentioned to Orla.“ Sherlock says.

  
“Sounds good. To me or to you?“ John asks.

  
“Let’s go to your room, you own the more comfortable chairs.“

  
The two start their climb back up to the shining castle.

  
“I actually bought these old chairs from a second-hand furniture store at Diagon Alley. Cost me like twenty pounds together.“

  
“Why did you buy two of them?“ Sherlock asks, hoping not to receive a ‚the other one is for my future girlfriend‘ answer.

  
“The seller said the two chairs belong together, and I think she was right.“ John says. Mr. Filch opens the door for them, the usual disgruntled grimace set firm on his face. Sherlock scratches Mrs. Norris behind her ears in passing. She accepts the gesture gracefully with a blink of her eyes.

  
John makes the hot chocolate himself this time. It is the middle of the night, and they don’t want to disturb the house elves.

  
The two fall in their respective chairs. Sherlock’s bones ache as they slowly warm back up. John lights the fireplace.

  
“You are right. The two chairs fit.“

  
“Told you so.“ John says, smirking. He stretches his legs out. “Christ, I can’t believe I am free from this stupid cane.“

  
“Maybe your Quidditch will improve now as well.“

  
John’s eyes drift close: “Shut up, you brat. I can beat you all at Quidditch with my arms bound behind my bag.“

  
“We should try that hypothesis tomorrow.“

  
“I’m sure the students would just love that.“

  
The image is delightful.

  
“If you don’t mind me asking… how come that you are able to see the thestrals?“ John asks, shuffling his socked feet around nervously.

  
“Maybe we need something stronger to drink for that talk.“ Sherlock says, trying to delay the inevitable. If John asks, Sherlock will answer, however terrible it is.

  
John gets two dusty bottles of fire whiskey and pours them a generous amount.

  
Sherlock gulps it down, the liquid burning his tongue.

  
“I’m assuming you see them because of your work.“ Sherlock starts carefully.

  
“True. My first week as an apprentice in St. Mungo’s. A patient with nasty burns was brought in too late. He practically fell to ashes in front of us.“ John shudders and takes a sip.

  
“I reckon seeing the thestrals comes with the job.“ Sherlock says and licks his dry lips. His fingertips tingle from the firewhiskey.

  
“After Hogwarts, I joined the aurors. They accepted me enthusiastically, due to my good grades. Mycroft was quickly climbing the ladder at the ministerium, and our parents were proud of their two sons.“ Sherlock takes another sip of the whiskey. John is waiting patiently.

  
“After about two years, I deliberately failed all my exams, and they threw me out. I never succeded at following orders and this was no different. Being a member of the aurors did not fit me. The militant structure of the aurors, my colleagues mocking me for my deductions… I did not get along with any of them.“ Sherlock shrugs and John snorts into his glass. “Oh god, yes. I’m surprised you lasted a day. You’re awful at following orders, I bet. Way too stubborn.“

  
“I joined the aurors immediately after my healer training was finished. Finally, I felt like I belonged somewhere. We were all comrades together in the fight against the Dark Arts. For two years, everything fit into place. It all came crashing down one night. We were travelling through Scotland, searching for a criminal fugitive. The criminal surprised us, and my superior, James Sholto, was caught in the explosion.“ John finishes his glass. Sherlock refills it.  
“Sorry to hear that.“ Sherlock says quietly.

  
John bites his lips: “It is hard to explain, but James and I shared a certain form of affection for each other, and I always wondered what could have happened.“

  
Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond to that, although his head is turning because of these exciting news. John had developed romantic feeling for a man!

  
“So, how come you can see the thestrals?“ John interrupts his wild thought process.

  
Time to tell the story.

  
“Me leaving the aurors is the main event leading up to it. After getting thrown out, I found a grimly and overpriced flat in London. I was… it is difficult to say, but you’ve seen how I was a few weeks ago.“

  
“Your black moods.“ John throws in helpfully.

  
“Yes, that. And I was so bored. It was hateful.“

  
John snorts: “I’m glad Hogwarts remains exciting, I don’t want to experience you bored.“

  
“You really don’t. My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, can attest to that.“

  
“She must have the patience of a saint.“

  
Sherlock starts drinking the second whiskey glass. His vision is getting a bit blurry. John sets his finished second glass on the table. Sherlock usually does not consume alcohol, but this whiskey gives him a warm feeling, and he needs to be drunk to tell this story. Hopefully, John will forgive him for what he is about to tell him.

“I started doing drugs.“

  
Silence. John’s mouth opens in shock, his arm dropping to his side.

  
“You… what?“

  
“Drugs, John. Muggle drugs, because their stuff is better. Heroin and cocaine, mostly. If you have heard of it, it pops up in their news frequently.“

  
John blinks, then his eyebrows furrow: “What the hell were you thinking?!“

  
“I told you, I was bored.“

  
“That is not an excuse to inject that shit into your veins, Sherlock! You could have died!“

  
“Why are you so furious?“

  
“Because I fucking care about you, damn it!“

  
They both breath heavily, and Sherlock needs a moment to gather his thoughts again.

  
“I did not earn any more money, and my parents had cut off their support for me. I could not pay rent and soon, I was living on the streets. One day, my most frequented dealer used too much, and he chocked on his own vomit while I was laying next to him.“ Sherlock spells it out, bitterly. The scene feels like a lifetime away. Both ruined young man sharing a few old blankets, drugged out of their minds in an abandoned warehouse with holes in the ceiling.

  
John is rubbing his pale faces while simultaneously shaking his head.

  
“What happened then.“ John whispers, not asking, but demanding an answer.

  
“Mycroft found me, and we both decided to get myself into rehab to get sober.“ Sherlock finishes.

  
Actually, that is not the whole truth. While his dealer — Billy Wiggins — was choking to death, someone had snug up on Sherlock. Not someone, more like something. A werewolf. It had bitten Sherlock in his arm, while the young man was helplessly drugged. He had made himself vulnerable to be attacked. When Sherlock found the bleeding bite mark on his arm, he knew staying on the streets with an addiction was too dangerous for any innocent people around him. So, he called Mycroft in his never-ending shame, and they made an agreement. Sherlock stays sober, and Mycroft will help him start a new life. Their deal works.

  
“Are you sober now?“ John asks. The vein on his neck is pulsing in anger.

  
“Yes. Ever since rehab ended a few years ago.“ He is slurring a bit. Sherlock finishes his third glass and wonders if John will throw him out now. He consumed way too much fire whiskey to walk straight.

  
“Good.“ John takes the bottle of fire whiskey and finishes it with impressing gulps.

  
Sherlock fidgets with his own glass.

  
“Don’t ever do that again.“ John says, and suddenly the other man is standing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock cranes his neck to focus on him.

  
“…What?“ He asks with a way too long pause.

  
“Don’t ever try to kill yourself again.“ John says, struggling through every word, his feet swaying from one to the other. “I will not allow it.“

  
“Why?“ Sherlock whispers into John’s ear, who is now leaning directly over him, shielding Sherlock from the rest of the room. Suddenly, Sherlock is able to speak in monosyllables.

  
“Because you are amazing, although, granted you can be a bit of a dick. You are lovely, Sherlock Holmes. And I utterly adore you.“

  
“You are drunk.“ Sherlock slurs with his thick tongue, his bones humming with what he had just heard.

  
“Maybe.“ John says, then practically falls over the chair, his lips landing on Sherlock’s.

  
“Oh.“ Sherlock muffles into John’s mouth. John’s tries to lift himself into a more dignified position, with his lips still pressed on Sherlock’s. John scrambles with his weak legs, while Sherlock has to figure out fast what to do with his hands or lips or is he supposed to use his tongue and oh dear, they both must smell of whiskey, and why did no one ever taught him kissing?

  
“JOHN, I was wondering…“ A cheery, female voice suddenly appears, and John jumps up so hard that he knocks his elbow into Sherlock’s face.

  
“Ouch! Sorry, Sherlock. Mary, what.“ John says, walking on unsteady feet to the door, where his ex-girlfriend is rooted to the spot.

  
Sherlock sinks down deeper into his chair, fiddling with his collar. He resists the urge to touch his lips, where he can still feel John’s touch.

  
What has just happened?

  
“I noticed your lights still burning and wanted to ask you if you needed something to sleep.“ She twitters, in her fake voice.

  
“No, we are fine.“ John manages to scramble together, and leans onto the wall. “I’ve had too much to drink.“ He says unnecessary.

  
“I can see that. You should go freshen up, and Sherlock should go to his own room. You are both tired.“ She talks to them like they are children, and as if Mary has the important tasks to mind them as their nurse.

  
“Yeah, sure.“ John mumbles, and Sherlock listens to the clink of the closing bathroom door. Seconds later, another person is looming over him and grabbing his wrists. Only this time, it is not at all welcome.

  
“I told you.“ Mary snarls, her face twisted like a snake. “I told you what will happen if you don’t leave my John alone.“ Her sweet perfume is making him gag.

  
Sherlock may be terrible drunk, but he can still answer a school nurse: “He is not yours.“

  
Her grip on his wrists tightens. It will bruise. “John will come back to me, just you wait.“ Sherlock is not impressed by her threats. John already knows about his fallout with the aurors and his drug addiction, and the other secret is so deeply hidden that not even his own parents know.

  
“You are too late. I have already told John everything.“ Sherlock says confidently. Mary’s lips twist into an ugly sneer.

  
“I can tell when you are fibbing, Sherlock Holmes.“ She says and releases him. Sherlock rubs his wrists and somehow flees John’s room and enter his own without further incident. Once there, he immediately checks the wolfsbane drunk, but everything is intact. The potion is still hidden, and his secret is nowhere documented. There is no way Mary will ever find out about this.

He switches out of his clothes and into his pyjama and tries to forget the image of Mary still in John’s room. Once in bed, the turning world slows down a bit and allows Sherlock to think.

  
John called him lovely and that he adored him. Sherlock hugs his blanket to his chest and commits every single moment of the evening to a special room in his mind-palace. Nobody had ever said something like this to Sherlock, and Sherlock never expected it, even if he lived longer than Nicholas Flamel.

Then, rather involuntary after finishing the rest of the whiskey, John had kissed him. Accident or not, it definitely happened. The question is, would John repeat his action when he sobered up tomorrow?

Sherlock desperately wants him too. He wants to be kissed by John, because that one, short, interrupted time was definitely not enough. Seven years of Hogwarts and the eight years after it, he never experienced any of these feelings he is having now. But then, he has met John only just now. This must be what thousand of books, films, and his parents always described.

  
Sherlock decides he never had a chance. How could he not fall in love with this exceptional man, this John Watson, who stumbled into his life and all the candles suddenly burned much brighter?


	6. The Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, John does not remember what happened. Sherlock starts to isolate himself again, but great danger looms...

It all comes crashing down on Monday, when John falls down on his seat next Sherlock at the breakfast table. The former healer appears to have got over the spectacular hangover better than Sherlock did. He bites enthusiastically into a piece of toast.

  
“How are you feeling?“ He asks Sherlock around his full mouth. Sherlock clutches his cup of tea and declines to answer. He has a headache and two classes of first graders waiting for him and all he can think of are the events on Halloween. Should he takes John hand?

  
“Listen, thank you for confiding in me that night. I really appreciate your trust in me.“ John says reassuringly, “But did anything happened afterwards? I only remember Mary tugging me into bed, and you were gone.“

  
“Yes, I must have gone to bed at some point.“ Sherlock says, his body going cold. John does not remember. John does not remember that he kissed Sherlock!

  
“Nice of Mary to take care of us. We must have been absolutely wasted.“ John chuckles.

  
“Hmmm.“ Sherlock says and pinches his thigh to keep him from crying out in anger. How nice of her indeed.

  
“This week is going to be endless, but would you like a trip to Hogsmead on Saturday? I need to fill up my chocolate collection for the students. We are starting to discuss dementors soon.“ John invites him. Sherlock wants to throw up his scrambled eggs.

  
“No, I’m busy.“ He says and gathers his bag. He needs to leave, right now.

  
“Oh.“ John’s face falls in disappointment. “What about next week?“

  
“I have to go.“ Sherlock mumbles and hurries out. He disappears into the crowd, and wishes he could fully disappear as well.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_   
  
_how are you doing? Work is highly stressful at the moment, there is a cold going around and everyone feels miserable! However, we got an interesting case of a poisoned woman this week, and she won’t admit from whom she received it. If you have time, come check her out._   
  
_All the best, Molly._

  
_We just arrived back home from our shopping trip at Seinfield. No accidents, apart from the father apparating to skip the elevator. Bought a white cocktail dress that flatters my curves immensely._   
  
_Irene_

  
_My friend at the ministerium told me you guys had an awesome Halloween party! When are we going to meet this John Watson? His former auror colleagues are still singing praise about him._   
  
_Greg ( LESTRADE — you know it’s me)_

  
_Everything alright with you? You haven’t answered any of my letters in weeks. Are you ill?_   
  
_Molly_

  
_I warned you. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._   
  
_Mycroft_

  
_Tell your creepy brother to stay out of my office. The snailgate scandal will make headlines, and he cannot stop me. I will send you a copy of it as soon as it’s out._   
  
_Janine_

* * *

  
Usually, time passes fast at Hogwarts. Between classes, grading homework and playing Quidditch, the days fly by like nothing. Inarguably, Hogwarts looks best at Christmas time, with the branches of the Forbidden Forest hanging full of snow, and students ice skating on the frozen lake. Everyone is eagerly anticipating the Christmas holidays, and no one wants to spend their time working at their desks. There is a distinct holiday cheer in the air, and more laughter in the corridor. Even Sherlock could not escape the spreading good mood last year.

  
Not this time though. Sherlock can barely look at John, his gut churning every time he meets the other teacher. He knows the fire whiskey is to blame for John’s amnesia regarding their not-even-real kiss, but he is still frustrated. Now that he knows that he is in love with John, it is impossible to stay simply friends with the other man. The other boy from Hufflepuff, the one he had a crush on — Victor Trevor, Sherlock can now hardly recall his face — was nothing against the agony Sherlock is experiencing now. His strategy to not get too attached worked out splendidly.

  
The worst thing is, is that John clearly figured out that something is wrong. He constantly knocks on Sherlock’s door, and Sherlock has taken to using the headphones Mrs. Hudson has sent him as an early present. It serves him as a convenient excuse not to hear him, since his violin playing isn’t loud enough. John invites him for strategy meetings for their Quidditch training, for walks in Hogsmead, one day even for a trip to a London Christmas market. Sherlock cancels every time, and he can sense John’s growing frustration and confusion.

  
“Did I do something wrong, Sherlock?“ He had said to him, after a hellish Quidditch training, when they both ended up frozen to the bone in their cabin.

  
“No, I’m just very busy.“ Sherlock says, playing with his wet coat.

  
“Then why won’t you look at me?“ John demands.

  
Sherlock stares at John’s angry eyes: “You have done nothing wrong. I’m just feeling a bit under the weather, that is all.“ He says, which is not exactly lying. He feels awful.

  
“Are you using again? Because if you are, I can help you.“ John pleads, trying to reach out, but Sherlock evades him.

  
“I told you, I’m clean.“ He says, and practically flees from any further questions. Unfortunately, he runs into Professor Trelawney when he passes her corridor.

  
“Holmes, I was waiting for you here. We did not have the opportunity to talk to each other this year at all.“

  
Sherlock tries to skip this no doubt unpleasant conversation: “Professor, the sixth graders are waiting with a large boiler of Amortentia for me. I have to hurry.“  
  


Her hand jumps forward and she grabs his forearm. Her large glasses are directly in front of his face: “I saw danger for you in my teacup today, Holmes. Grave danger is coming for you soon!“

  
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad.“ He says hastily, tugging his arm free.

  
“Be careful!“ She shouts after him, causing several students to turn their head curiously.

* * *

He really feels awful. He has hardly slept in the last six weeks, nightmares of Mary Morstan invading his dreams. Sherlock cannot get her threats out of his head. Every night, he checks his wolfsbane potion, but everything is where it’s supposed to be. The delicious Hogwarts food grows into stones in his stomach and tastes like ashes. Sherlock’s skin is paler than ever, his hair gets greasy faster and when he showers he can count his ribs.

  
The lack of sleep, the stress and his strained friendship with John has strained his patience and tolerance for his students.

  
“For Merlin’s sake, I have told you this a thousand times! For this potion to work, you must turn it left two times, then right. Repeat until it turns blue. Even a monkey could do it better.“ Sherlock rages at a fifth grader from Slytherin, who is staring miserably at their orange potion.

  
Sherlock walks over to the next potion, which only gives him further reason to vent: “Aisha, maybe if you wouldn’t concentrate on writing your boyfriend every night, you could concentrate on the class you’re failing!“

  
Aisha turns red with anger, but Sherlock simply winks her starting arguments away.  
“All of you are dismissed. I cannot stand this high incompetence in this room any longer. Leave!“ Nobody moves, and Sherlock has to repeat his orders twice, until they finally grab their stuff and go with slumped shoulders.

  
Sherlock sinks down on his chair and rubs his eyes. This week has been a disaster from start to finish. Thankfully, the end is near. The last school day before the Christmas holidays has finally arrived with the annual feast, the mandatory Christmas party for the teachers is on Sunday and after that, he can finally travel to Baker Street.

  
Where he will properly spend the rest of Christmas and New Year’s Eve in his flat alone, only with his skull and his violin for company. Maybe Mrs. Hudson will bring up biscuits, she always misses him when he is working at school. She may be his landlady and not his housekeeper, but she is more of a surrogate mother. Sherlock misses her.

  
A soft knock on his door rips Sherlock out of his thoughts.

  
John is standing on his doorstep, nervously clenching and unclenching his fist which leans on the wall.

  
“Sherlock, can I talk with you?“

  
Sherlock hastily scrambles his books together: “Sorry, I have to be off. The next students will arrive soon.“

  
“I know this was your last class, I peeked at your schedule. Don’t tell me you are still forcing them to do homework.“

  
Sherlock snorts: “Of course, how else are they going to learn?“

  
John sighs, steps in and closes the door behind him, which means Sherlock is trapped in this room and in this painful conversation he doesn’t want to have.

  
“You are my friend Sherlock. In fact, you have become my best friend. If anything bothers you, you can tell me. Whatever you are going through, you won’t have to do it alone.“

  
John sounds sincere, and Sherlock is inclined to believe him. The young teacher is leaning closer to him, and Sherlock can smell John’s aftershave, coupled with his shampoo, earl grey tea and something Sherlock is not able to identify.  
He smells like he did in the evening they kissed.

  
Suddenly, Sherlock desperately wants to tell John about Mary’s threats, about the potion he hides in the secret cupboard next to his bed, and most of all what is going to happen to Sherlock tonight after he drinks it.

  
Then, what if John tells someone from the ministerium about his secret? What if Mary is right and John will go back to her?

  
Sherlock pulls on his best fake smile, the one he used at school for seven years: “I’m fine. And even if I weren’t, it would not be any of your bloody business.“

  
John falls back in shock.

  
“We barely know each other. I thought you were interesting because of your injury, but now that this is over, I don’t want to waste any more time with you. You are just a pathetic failed auror who could not even heal himself. So, LEAVE. ME. ALONE.“

  
Sherlock may have shouted the last part, he isn’t sure. He only notices his rapidly stuttering heart when he is already back in his private room.  
His warm blanket envelops him.  
Sherlock has done the right thing. John was getting too close to Sherlock, and this is dangerous.  
Then why does he feel so awful?

  
He skips dinner that day and hides in his room. A werewolf does not deserve a Christmas feast.

  
Later, Sherlock will beat himself up for his grand stupidity that he did not notice the foreign smell editing from his hidden cupboard sooner when he gets the wolfsbane potion out.  
But at that moment, all he managed to focus on was John’s heartbroken expression when Sherlock had thrown all these horrible accusations at him.

  
So he gulped down the potion, and settled down in his bed with a hot cup of tea, as always.

  
A few minutes later, he developed stomach cramps and back pain, which is unfortunately also common.

  
Around eleven o’clock, he fell asleep, thinking of the Christmas party downstairs. He wonders if Mary and John are dancing together.

  
At half past one, he is suddenly fully awake, with an unbearable need for a hunt and a hunger for human flesh.

  
This is unusual. He staggers to his secret cupboard, clutching the hot water bottle close to his stomach, and wrenches the door open.

  
His cupboard smelled of Clair de la Lune, a popular muggle perfume.

  
It is the perfume Mary uses.

  
She must have put in the tincture he himself taught his students on their first day at Hogwarts. The tincture that weakens a potion’s biggest effect. Intended as a safety net, now abused as a weapon.

  
Sherlock has severely underestimated her motivation.

* * *

_The feeling of euphoria that comes with the cocaine is burning through Sherlock’s veins, and with an elated sigh he collapses on the cartoons they use as a mattress. Wiggins is laying an arm length away from him, he has been blissed out for several minutes. The abandoned warehouse that has become their living space in the last couple of days is illuminated nicely by the full moon that shines through the many cracks in the ceiling._   
  
_It is a cold winter night, and only the rush of the drug is keeping Sherlock from shivering. The sound of the capital is far away from them, and despite his companion laying next to him, Sherlock has never felt so utterly alone._   
  
_He has botched every opportunity he has been given, he has driven the people he cares about from his life, and the only thing that keeps him tethered to this life is the substance in dirty syringes._   
  
_Maybe, he should draw a line underneath it all. Enjoy one last high, and off he goes._   
  
_“ Hnnng.“ Wiggins gasps out, his body shivering._   
  
_“You alright? “ Sherlock mumbles half-heartedly, not having the energy to really care. He slowly turns his head, watching the other young man, who is horribly trembling, his face ghostly pale._   
  
_Sherlock notices the symptoms, but he cannot connect the dots._   
  
_Due to his confusion, he never noticed it coming. Sherlock does not know if the werewolf who bit him was male or female, what colour their fur was or how their face looked._   
  
_He only remembers the stinging pain in his arm, and the terror that shot through his veins as the monster ripped a part away from him, while Wiggins choked to death on their filthy mattress._

  
  
Years later, he is running in panic through the thankfully deserted corridors of the castle. He doesn’t know where to go, all he can think of is the shouted RUN RUN RUN AWAY in his head. He needs to go where there are no living souls he can hurt, before he loses all control over himself.

  
This is his worst fear coming true.

  
Sherlock reaches one of the smaller doors and wrenches it open, gasping in pain and gulping in the fresh, cold air. The Forbidden Forest looms in front of him, slowly getting covered in soft snowflakes.

  
The snowflakes turn to water as soon as they touch Sherlock’s skin. He is burning up. Sherlock can feel the wolf clawing from within, trying to tear down his control over his mind.

  
He needs to get further away from Hogwarts, from the hundreds of sleeping, defensive students who lay in their bed. So easy to steal.

  
Sherlock sprints down the hill, but a spell of dizziness hits him and his knees give in. He falls down hard on his hands, a surge of sudden pain radiating through his wrist. Sherlock rolls a few more meters before he can stop himself.

  
He is shivering with the cold. Sherlock presses his aching wrist to his chest. He is still human, has not turned yet, if only he can survive the night…

  
There is no strength left in his quivering legs, and so he crawls on one hand, until he reaches the first trees. They welcome him like an old friend.

  
See? We are not so different any more, you and I. We are both scary tales adults tell their children to stay away from.

  
Oh, how he would love to prowl the forest, hunting for fresh meat! His throat is dry and his mouth opens to gnarl, wanting to eat, to destroy.

  
He slumps down with his back against a tree, cradling his wrist carefully. Another cramp makes him sob in pain. The cramps wander from his stomach to his legs, today worser than ever. Sherlock wishes he could be back in bed, with a cup of tea and a hot-water bottle, knowing everyone else is safe from him, but Mary took this away from him in a brilliantly cruel way.

  
The werewolf inside him aches to run, so Sherlock stomps his feet into the ground and presses his fingernails into the dirty forest ground. Just another few hours, he can do it, just a few hours…

  
“Hey!“ A girl giggles, only about 50 meters away from him. “Do not go without me!“

  
The wolf raises his head and breathes in her perfume and his body spray. The human inside of the wolf is gone.

  
It’s Aisha and her red-haired boyfriend, having fun on their secret night date. Holding hands and kissing outside in the snow. A romantic, if reckless date.

  
The wolf gets up, baring his still humane teeth. Fresh flesh, vulnerable and defenselss, only a few steps away from him. The hungry growl starts in his stomach, and he prepares himself for the sprint.

  
A different wolf, easily twice as large as the thin werewolf, with glowing red fur and blue eyes jumps from out of nowhere and attacks the distracted werewolf with a loud bark and the brilliance of a trained hunter. The red wolf easily wrestles the werewolf to the ground, who howls back in fury and snaps at the wolfs neck. Aisha and her boyfriend run away screaming, but the two fighting animals ignore them as the wolf drags the fighting and yelping werewolf deeper into the forest, away from the students and from the rest of civilization, leaving paw marks in the snow. The forest hides their gruesome fighting, and the castle lies in silence again, as if nothing happened.

  
_“It is all going to be alright, Sherlock. Try to relax, I’m here now and I will help you. We are nearly there. Just hold on a little longer, love. “_

  
Sherlock vaguely remembers a wild animal and the biting cold. He remembers laying in the snow, feeling utterly defeated. He remembers strong, warm hands carrying him back into the warmth, and a light kiss on his forehead. Surely, at least the last part was only a dream.

  
His muscles send a thousand screaming complaints to Sherlock’s head, his burning wrist being the loudest of them. Fortunately, he is laying somewhere soft and warm. With a happy sign he curls himself deeper under the blanket, cherishing the lack of cramps and back pain.

  
Wait.

  
Where is he, why is he laying in a bed, what happened, and whose bed is this???

  
Sherlock sits up so fast another dizzy spell nearly overcomes him.

  
“Shush… I have already excused you from your duties today. Flitwick is taking care of the Ravenclaws. There is no reason to go anywhere. You haven’t got nearly enough sleep. Rest, Sherlock.“

  
A strong hand presses him gently back into the covers, and Sherlock obeys. The kind words do make sense, after all.

  
He focuses his eyes through the upcoming headache and recognizes the kind blue eyes of John Watson. John, who watches him with great concern. The other man is sitting on a chair next to his bed, leaning over him. They are in John’s room, probably because his was closer to the castle door.

  
“You are an animagus. A wolf.“ Sherlock mumbles out.

  
John nods: “Yes, I became one during my auror training. I gathered it would be a very helpful skill. I’m glad I turned out to be a wolf and not a goldfish.“

  
“How did I not see it.“ Sherlock whispers to himself, irritated at his own oversight. He screws his eyes shut.

  
“Surely not even you can know everything, Sherlock.“ John says, his face splitting into a huge grin. Apparently, Sherlock’s stupidity is highly amusing.

  
Sherlock closes his eyes to compose himself, and suddenly the events of last night come back with distant clarity.

  
“No…“ He groans and tries to climb out of bed. He needs to flee!

  
John’s arms stop him from practically falling out of bed, and the former healer wrestles the heavy blanket back over his patient.

  
“Sherlock, stop. You are not going anywhere.“

  
“Did I hurt anyone?“ Sherlock asks, wrangling his hands before he notices that his left wrist is resting in a light splint.

  
“No, you did not.“ John says comfortingly. Sherlock breathes out in relief, until he remembers their fight.

  
“Did I bite you?“ He whispers, voice quivering in fear while he searches for any marks on John’s beautiful body. By every god that is supposedly out there, please did not let him hurt John Watson.

  
“No, even if you wanted to, you could not manage it. My wolf form is way bigger than yours.“ John jokes and chuckles until he notices Sherlock’s discomfort.

  
“Why did you turn last night? Surely, you are using the newest adaption of the wolfsbane potion?“ John asks.

  
“I do.“ Sherlock admits.

  
“What went wrong?“

  
Sherlock tries to shuffle under the blanket, but John stops him again.

  
“Someone messed up my potion, weakened it. I fought to stay human for hours, until the wolf smelled two students close by.“ Sherlock shudders. Without John’s help, Sherlock would have murdered or at least bitten the two teenagers, cursed them to a life of secrecy and pain.

  
They were so close…

  
John guessed his nausea before Sherlock did, and so Sherlock finds himself, leaned over the bed and vomiting into a bucket, while John pulls his hair away soothingly.

  
When he is finished, he falls back into the pillow why John forces a few sips of water over his chapped lips. John carefully puts the glass back, then rubs his hands. Sherlock waits.

  
“It was Mary, wasn’t she? She drugged your wolfsbane potion.“ John says, and, alright, this is not what Sherlock expected.

  
“How do you know?“ Sherlock exclaims.

  
She sent me up to your room last night. Mary mentioned to me that you complained to her about stomach pain, and she asked me to check on you. I found your room deserted, but your cupboard next to the bed was open, and I recognized the rest of the wolfsbane potion immediately. I smelled her perfume, Claire de la Lune, she used to wear it every day we dated. I hated it.“

  
Sherlock is stunned in silence. John was worried about him, although Sherlock had thrown all these horrible accusations at him. John connected the dots himself and then went to rescue Sherlock from himself.

  
“Thank you, so, so much. I don’t know how to make it up to you.“ Sherlock says sincerely.

  
“Yes, well, I’m not that useless after all.“ John says quietly, and Sherlock’s heart breaks. Now it is him who reaches out and takes John’s hand.

  
“John, I don’t know how you can ever forgive me, but you must know how utterly sorry I am. I did not mean a word I said to you. You are anything but useless, you are brave, smart, and kind. You risked your own life to fight a hungry werewolf. I don’t know anyone else who would do that.“

  
John bits his lip, nodding slowly. Then, he presses Sherlock’s hand.

  
“Thank you, this means a lot to me. Of course, I forgive you. We all say stuff we sometimes regret.“

  
The two men smile carefully at each other.

  
“If you don’t mind me asking, but how did it happen?“

  
“Do you remember how I told you about my drug addiction phase, and how Wiggins died? Somebody bit me that night, though I don’t recall who it was.“

  
Sherlock can feel John’s anger radiating from him through Sherlock’s blanket.

  
“No idea at all?“

  
Sherlock shakes his head.

  
“Shame. Would have loved to rip that person apart for what they did to you.“

“Thank you.“ Sherlock says, feeling weirdly pleased with John harbouring murderous feelings towards Sherlock’s enemies.

  
“What I do not understand… Why would Mary do that to you?“ John asks abruptly.

  
“She was jealous of me.“ Sherlock blurts out and wants to press his hands in front of his mouth to stop another sound from getting blurbed out.

  
John is bewildered: “Why?“

  
“She threatened me multiple times. Mary thought I was taking you away from her. She desperately wants to rekindle your relationship.“

John snorts: “This is utter nonsense. She cheated on me, and after this dangerous stunt she pulled on you, Mary can rot for all I care. I will speak with McGonagall and see to it that she is fired on the spot.“  


  
“It is too late anyway.“ Sherlock says, the hopelessness of his situation sinking in. “She will have told every living soul in this castle about me being a werewolf. Mary must have planned to humiliate me in front you, by sending you to my room last night. She hoped that either you would tell on me, or someone else would see me. Her plan did not work, but with the found wolfsbane potion she has proof enough now. The students will tell their families, and McGonagall will have no choice but to fire me.“  


  
“Why would she fire you, it was Mary’s fault! Nothing happened on all the other nights with a full moon.“  


  
“Nobody wants their teacher to be a werewolf, John. Remember what could have happened yesterday to Aisha and her friend. Anti-discrimination laws or not, as soon as my secret is out, I will never find a job again.“  


  
John balls his fist and punches the wall. Sherlock flinches in surprise. John is quivering with anger.  


  
“That fucking… I never should have left you alone with her. I knew she was trouble the first time I met her in the hospital wing.“  


  
“No reason to blame yourself.“ Sherlock mutters, shrugging his shoulders. The dizziness has made a comeback, and his head swims. The mere thought of leaving Hogwarts forever behind, his teaching position, the students, the speaking portraits, the Quidditch training…  


  
John.  


  
It punches a hole through his stomach.  


  
“I need to go to McGonagall’s office and get it over with.“ Sherlock stammers and somehow drags himself to his feet, this time with John’s help.  


  
“I’m going with you.“ John declares resolutely, and Sherlock accepts it gratefully. Their time together at Hogwarts may have been short, but at least they had this at all.  
  


Into battle.


	7. A Meeting under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have to face the consequences of what happened during the last night, and Sherlock fears he will have to leave Hogwarts, forever this time. Additionally, there is also the unaddressed romantic tension which both of them feel clearly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns an E rating!  
> It is my first attempt at porn, so please excuse any lingering awkwardness. I tried my best.
> 
> Have fun with the last chapter!

They enter McGonagall’s office through the secret entrance (password: maine-coon) with Sherlock being supported by John, half of his weight leaning on the other teacher. At any other moment, Sherlock would have been thrilled with the closeness to the other man, but now, all he can feel is dread.

  
Sherlock is going to get fired from the only job he ever loved, he is going to get evicted from the only home he has ever known, and he will be forced to leave the only person he ever loved.

  
The Worst Christmas ever.

  
“Holmes, Watson! Don’t just stand there twiddling thumb and come in.“

  
Professor Minerva McGonagall, animagus, celebrated witch, defender of Hogwarts and headmistress and at the moment, the most terrifying person Sherlock has ever encountered, is waiting for them behind her desk. The Oval Office is full of bookshelves, the phoenix Fawkes is resting on a bar over Albus Dumbledore’s portrait.

  
“Sit down, Holmes.“ She says and points at the two chairs in front of the desk. John and Sherlock obey. Sherlock is reminded of the many situations he has been found here before, most notably when he set the second floor underwater.

  
John does not wait for the inevitable (ever the fighting auror) and immediately goes into his attack mode: “Professor McGonagall, none of this is Sherlock’s fault! The school nurse, Mary Morstan drugged his otherwise perfectly brewed Wolfsbane potion, it was an evil trap. You cannot fire him for that!“

  
“John, it’s fine.“ Sherlock whispers.

  
McGonagall raises her hands in exasperation: “Stop, the both of you. Professor Holmes, I told you when I employed you that your identity has to be kept a secret. Imagine how surprised I was this morning, when Miss Morstan ran around and told every single student who is still at Hogwarts about their potion teacher being a dangerous animal!“

“I know, Professor.“ Sherlock says, his shoulders slumping. He had been right, Mary has outed him to everyone she met.

  
“Professor.“ John throws in, wanting to defend Sherlock still, but McGonagall interrupts him.

  
“News travel fast in the wizard world. It is only afternoon, and I have already received multiple letters from worried parents, and a visit from the Ministerium.“

  
Sherlock groans.

  
McGonagall opens a drawer and puts a large bundle of letters on the table. Sherlock can count ten letters.

  
“These are letters from ten parents, who demand that I fire you.“

  
“I understand, Professor. “ Sherlock says, his throat dry. “I will pack my things immediately.“

  
“If you fire Sherlock, I will leave too.“ John threatens, which makes Sherlock feel even more guilty.

  
McGonagall ignores them: “And these…“ She puts a much larger batch of letters and handwritten notes torn out of books next to the first collection. “Are all the letters and notes I have received today that demand Professor Holmes must keep his position, plus the dozens of students that interrupted my breakfast, lunch and who knocked on my office door the whole day.“

  
Sherlock gapes at the easily five dozen messages. His brain goes offline in shock.

  
“Does this mean Sherlock will be allowed to stay?“ John asks excited.  
McGonagall leans back in her chair and nods satisfied: “Yes, Professor Holmes will stay. I must say this is a long overdue and welcome progress in our society. The views of people may change slowly, but they change.“

  
Sherlock blinks rapidly.

  
“What about Mary Morstan?“ John demands.

  
“I fired her for willingly endangering the students and my teachers. She has left Hogwarts already, and she is not allowed back on the premise.“

  
“What about the guy from the Ministerium?“

  
“Hogwarts has never allowed the prime minister to influence our school, this won’t change now. Besides, I have the good feeling we have someone powerful on our side at the Ministerium.“

  
“Thank you, so much. For everything. “ John stammers. Sherlock is still blinking.

  
“Don’t thank me, thank the students. I will expect you both tonight at the Christmas party for the teachers.“ She winks at them. “Is he going to be alright until then?“

  
“Yes, he is just rebooting.“

  
“Well, do it somewhere else. I need to think about my costume.“ McGonagall shoos them out of her office, and Sherlock comes back online.

  
“Why… Why would the students defend me?“ He stammers, not comprehending. John throws his arms around Sherlock, mindful of his hurt wrist, and hugs him.

  
“The student adore you, Sherlock. They love your lessons, and our Quidditch training. Of course, they don’t want you to go.“

  
Sherlock’s hands are shaking, and he tugs them between their chests. His secret may be out, but he no longer has to hide.

  
“We still have a few hours until the Christmas party. What do you want to do?“

  
“We could play wizard cluedo.“ Sherlock says, the giddiness overwhelming him. He is allowed to keep this.

  
“Alright, though I fear I will regret this.“

  
“Why, I’m excellent at cluedo.“

  
“That’s what I meant.“

  
As they squabble about the game, they pass multiple students who react enthusiastically when they recognize Sherlock. Laila and Alex even hug him, before going to their date in Hogsmead. The knights clatter with their metal helmets, and the characters in their pictures wink at him.

  
This must be what Christmas is supposed to be like, Sherlock thinks.

  
Tomorrow, he will take the time to delete their accidental kisses from his mind palace. John clearly does not feel the same way, now probably even less that he knows Sherlock is a werewolf. Sherlock has more he ever dreamed off, there is no reason to endanger this.

* * *

Sherlock had excused himself after three rounds of wizard cluedo to change his clothes, and so he arrives alone and a bit late at the teacher’s Christmas party in the teacher’s lounge. The students don’t know about this tradition, and the entrance is heavily guarded by two knight statues. After a few drinks, Professor Flitwick usually gets the piano out and plays tunes, while Professor Trelawney shows off her high notes. When students are not present, the teachers at Hogwarts run a bit wild. Last year, Sherlock had excused himself early from the party, not really knowing his colleagues then. This time, he is determined to enjoy himself and stay until the end.

  
“Holmes, how nice of you to join us.“ McGonagall comments dryly as she rushes away, holding a glass of red wine in her hand.

  
Sherlock quickly checks his appearance in a nearby mirror. He has forgone the usual suit and black robe with dark trousers and a purple shirt. The shirt is from his drug addiction time and it sits a bit tight on him. Sherlock hopes nobody will go blind by a flying button.

  
Everyone else is already there, lounging in the colourful and very old seats. Sherlock refuses the offered firewhiskey. Being drunk one time this year was far from enough. Flitwick enquires about his health, and reminds him again of the Duellist club which will start in January. Sherlock accepts his invitation this time. A duel between John and him does sound thrilling.

  
He finds himself on a red sofa next to Professor Longbottom, who is telling him about the decorations he has put up. Sherlock’s attention is drawn to a specific person however, who is the last guest to appear at the entrance, smiling smugly when he notices Sherlock’s impressed face. John is wearing a blue gown which shines artfully, and he looks absolutely gorgeous.

  
Get yourself together, Sherlock, he berates himself as he finds himself next to his friend.

  
“Christ, Sherlock. You look beautiful.“ John says, his tongue licking his lips while staring at the fighting buttons on his chest. Sherlock manages to stammer a thank-you.

  
This is hopeless. He cannot hide his romantic feelings for the other teacher forever.

  
“This was quite an eventful year, wasn’t it.“ John comments.

  
“That’s true. You got cheated on, found a new job, and you were forcefully reunited with your ex-girlfriend who went on a revenge mission. Not a good year.“

  
“Could have been way worse.“  
  
“Sherlock, John! You are under the mistletoe. You have to kiss.“ Mister Longbottom shouts over the celebrating teachers, who all turn around to see what the fuss is about.

  
Sherlock feels like an ice bucket was dropped on him. John is waiting patiently, not making any move, waiting for Sherlock to act. All Sherlock can think of though is the ruined kiss weeks ago, where the drunken John stumbled on him. John never remembered.

  
Sherlock tears himself away and runs off.

* * *

  
The Astronomy tower seems like a good point to stop running, so Sherlock does. Coughing, he leans over the balcony to get fresh air. The night sky is clear, his quickly bought wolfsbane potion is working perfectly against the magic of the full moon. Sherlock cradles his injured wrist and inexplicably, thinks off Mycroft.

  
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

  
Much too late for that advice, dear brother.

  
John has already reached Sherlock’s hiding place. Of course, the other man immediately followed him, because that is what John does. Loyal until the end.

  
“Sherlock.“ John starts, pressing his hand on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock turns around, suddenly enraged by his careful tone.  
“Why do you not remember our kiss?“ He snarls to the surprised John.

  
“What kiss?“ John asks confused.

  
“Halloween, when we drank a bottle of firewhiskey, before Mary interrupted us. You told me that you adore me, and that you think I am lovely.“ Sherlock spits the words out.

  
John slowly shakes his head: “I thought it was all a dream.“

  
“Why would you think that?“ Sherlock shouts. Surely, a kiss from him could not be so easily put aside?

  
“I gathered that in no reality, you would want to kiss me.“ John stammers, raking his fingers through his blond hair, making it all dishevelled.

  
“Did you kiss me on my forehead tonight?“ Sherlock asks, recalling his own dream.

  
“Yes, I did. I desperately wanted to comfort you, and this worked best.“

  
“So…“ Sherlock coughs nervously. “Did you really mean all the thing you said to me that night?“

  
John looks at him, back straight, chin high: “I did. Did you want me to kiss you?“

  
“I did. I do.“ Sherlock stammers, taking a small step towards John. The other man closes the gap between them.

  
“Your wish is my command.“ John whispers in his raspy voice that makes Sherlock quiver, and then, finally,

  
their lips meet.

  
Fireworks explode in Sherlock’s chest. His heart is dancing a tango. His hands are quivering.

  
They are slowly tasting each other, exploring the other man. John caresses Sherlock’s curls, while Sherlock brushes his hands over John’s still well-defined muscles.

  
John’s mouth opens, and he gently presses Sherlock’s shoulder to do the same. Their tongues tease each other, until Sherlock involuntarily has to take a break to breathe.

  
“Good to know I have not lost my touch.“ John giggles, while pressing Sherlock’s head against his good shoulder. The shirt under Sherlock’s head crunches. Sherlock never expected kissing to be so deeply meaningful and yet fun at the same time.

  
There is one last thing to say.

  
“John, I am a werewolf.“ Sherlock whispers, and John’s hand stills.

  
“I know, love. I was there last night.“

  
“This makes me dangerous.“

  
“Remember what you said to me, on our first shared evening at Hogwarts? I am not haunted by danger, I miss it. Together with you, every day is different from the last, because you brought the thrill back into my life. I will not let a stupid bite deter me from keeping you for the rest of our lives.“

  
Sherlock is pretty sure the whole school can hear the eruption of his heart: “For our whole lives? That is ambitious.“

  
“I know we two do not mind a challenge.“

  
“Certainly not. Let’s start the rest of our lives at a more comfortable place. Your room?“

  
“Hmmm… I would love to take you to bed right now, but I’m afraid neither of our sleeping quarters are big enough for what I am planning to do with you. How about we pop down to the Room of Requirement and see where it takes us?“

  
“You are full of brilliant ideas, John.“ Sherlock says and takes John’s hand. The other man swiftly leads him down the stairs, and the two walk on tiptoes around the teacher’s lounge. The party music is clearly audible through the heavy doors.

  
“I think Professor Trelawney is singing 'Silent Night‘ already.“ Sherlock says.

  
“I would love to see that.“

  
“We can go back, if you want.“

  
“Nah. On second thought, I prefer to see you naked. These shirt buttons are waiting to be ripped apart. Forget the werewolf thing, this purple shirt should be illegal.“

  
The two arrive breathlessly at the right corridor, and after walking three times, the wall changes, and they can step through the door.

  
“What did you wish for?“ John exclaims. The Room of Requirement has delivered them a gigantic bed, a table with snacks and whiskey, a closed window and a small bathroom. Numerous mistletoes are hanging from the ceiling, and a decorated Christmas Tree awaits in the corner.

  
“I wanted a place where we can celebrate Christmas together.“ Sherlock says, pointing at the various items.

  
“That is a fantastic wish. Tomorrow, I will kiss you under every single mistletoe, but for tonight…“ They are kissing again and walking backwards, until Sherlock’s knees hit the bed frame, and he falls on his back.

  
“Oof.“

  
John scrambles over him, and with skilful movements thanks to years of healer training, the purple shirt dissolves under his fingers. John leans down and licks a stripe from Sherlock’s naval to his neck, and Sherlock’s head arches back as John pinches first his left, then his right nipple.

  
“Ahh…“

  
“Do you like it?“

  
“Yes, but you are wearing way too many clothes.“ Together, they wrestle John out of his robe and his cuddly jumper. Sherlock allows his eyes to wander over John’s broad chest.

  
“Let me see.“ Sherlock asks and John gives him permission. Sherlock carefully explores the gnarly scar on John’s shoulder, then kisses slowly every inch of it.

  
“It is ugly.“ John says, his eyes closed in shame.

  
“How can it be ugly when it is part of you.“ Sherlock answers, not wanting John to ever think less of himself. John blushes a bit, and Sherlock makes a mental note to do this more often from now on.

  
“Now you.“ John says, and opens the zip of Sherlock’s tight, black trousers.

  
“These are gorgeous pants. Too bad they have to go off.“ John says, then leans down and kisses the tip of Sherlock’s throbbing cock through his dark pants. Sherlock comes right there on the spot.  
“If you continue to do that, I won’t last long.“ Sherlock gasps.

  
“Fine, I will distract you: Mary’s full name is Rosamund Mary Morstan.“  
Sherlock dissolves into giggles, the bed vibrating under them: “I know I don’t get a say in this considering the name my parents choose for me, but ‚Rosamund Mary‘? Who would force a name like this on their child?“

  
“I think your name is lovely.“ John says, then starts rolling down Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock’s cock jumps free, erect with the newly experienced excitement. John gets up to divest them both of their socks and shoes, before sliding on top of Sherlock.

  
“There is something you should know.“ Sherlock chokes out, while John takes his hands, pins them over Sherlock’s head and peppers his long pale neck with kisses.

  
“What is it?“

  
“I have never done anything like before. No relationship, no kissing and no…“ He breathes out: “Sex.“

  
John’s eyes turn dark with possessiveness. His left-hand strokes the angry bite mark from the anonymous werewolf who bit Sherlock years ago.

  
“You don’t mind?“ Sherlock asks lamely.

  
“Definitely not.“ John growls. Sherlock’s hands find his trouser zip and finally, John is finally completely naked as Sherlock is.

  
“I may not talk for days and I play the violin when I’m thinking. Possible roommates should know the worst of each other.“ Sherlock throws in while he scans every bit of John’s exposed body.

  
John regretfully stops the kissing: “Is that an invitation for me to move in?“

  
“It is logical. My room is bigger than yours.“

  
“I would love to move in with you, especially when I can do this to you every night.“ Then, John does something down there that makes Sherlock moan loudly in pleasure.

  
“Wait, I want to try something.“ Sherlock says, then pushes the willing John on his back and climbs on top of him. He eyes John’s cock, which is nearly purple, the tip glistening. It is big, but Sherlock has a good feeling about this. He carefully takes John’s cock into his mouth and experimentally sucks on it.

  
“Oh god, Sherlock…“ John groans out and presses the arm on his mouth.

  
Encouraged by this positive reaction, Sherlock starts alternating between swirling his tongue around it and sucking on John’s cock. John pushes his hands through Sherlock’s curls and tugs on them.

  
“Wait- you should get a fucking prize for this, but I’m going to come any second if you don’t stop.“

  
Sherlock lets go: “What do you want to do?“

  
“Anything you want to do.“

  
Sherlock does not need time to think: “I want you inside me.“

  
“Are you sure?“ John asks, his pupils wide open with lust.

  
“Yes, and hurry up.“ Sherlock says. Before he knows it, he is flipped on his stomach, laying now fully in the middle of the bed.

  
John’s hand presses Sherlock’s arse, and he arranges his legs. Sherlock enjoys it a lot, being manhandled by John like this.

“We don’t have lube.“ John reminds him.

  
“Make something, you are a wizard.“ Sherlock growls, wiggling his arse.

  
John laughs, and shoves a pillow under Sherlock’s hip.

  
“We also don’t have protection.“

  
“You are a healer and therefore careful, and I am a virgin. We don’t need it.“ Sherlock declares convincingly and urges his partner to get on with it, damn it.

  
“Tell me when it gets too much or I need to slow down.“ John says, the tip of his finger circling Sherlock’s hole.

  
“I will.“

  
John pushes the first finger into Sherlock. It burns, but they wait a few seconds until the feeling subsides. John moves the finger around, and soon, the second finger joins in. Sherlock moans into the pillow. The stinging is nearly unbearable for a second.

  
“You are doing so good.“ John mumbles and strokes Sherlock’s trembling hip. His fingers start making scissoring movements to open Sherlock up, and the third finger slips in a little easier.

  
“I think you are ready, love.“ John whispers and makes a motion with his wand to pour more lube on his fully erect cock.

  
“Wait, I want to see you.“ Sherlock throws in and turns on his back. John’s eyes shine full of love and it takes all the rest of Sherlock’s anxiety away. He watches as John slowly pushes his cock into Sherlock’s hole.

  
“You are so tight, sweetheart. You are amazing.“ John showers him with praise while he starts a rhythmic movement. Sherlock whines in pleasure and digs his heel into John’s back.

  
With a deliberate hard thrust, Sherlock sees stars.

  
“Do it again!“ He demands shouting, and John laughs. Three more desperate thrust, and Sherlock spills all over their bellies, nearly sobbing with relief. John holds him through it.

  
“Well done.“ John pants, and after a few more movements he comes, his cock buried deep into Sherlock’s body. John collapses on top of Sherlock, who pulls his arms around his chest to keep him right there.

  
“Let’s stay like this for a moment longer.“ Sherlock whispers, and John pushes a sweaty curl out of his face. Their breaths grow slower.

  
It may be difficult to describe, but with John, right here in this bed, after making love for the first time, Sherlock has never felt more settled.

  
The Room of Requirement opens the curtains to a newly made window, and the moonlight envelopes the couple on their bed.

  
Their noses bump into each other as they kiss again, and John carefully pulls out. Answering Sherlock’s disappointed whine, he rolls them both on their side and hugs Sherlock closer to him.

  
“Sleep for a bit, love. You need it.“ John says.

“I don’t want to miss a moment of this.“  
  


“I am not going anywhere, I promise.“

That is true.

"Can we do it again?" Sherlock asks eagerly.

John snorts: "I think I need a few minutes more. Then, we can continue the full night."

Sherlock pushes his head between John’s neck and shoulders, listens to his slowly breathing lover and closes his eyes.

  
They are home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little story, and I wish you all a Happy New Year.

**Author's Note:**

> All the love goes to my beta reader 221carnations who tirelessly helps me to improve my writing.
> 
> Important: All rights go of course to Arthur Conan Doyle and J.K.Rowling. I don't earn any money from this fanfic, it is purely intended for AO3.


End file.
